The Holiday
by Margaux Chutney
Summary: Occurs mid-canon, following the night Peter and Assumpta spend in the woods. What if Peter had decided to take a holiday from being a Priest... from his vows, even? Just how would he fill his days...
1. Chapter 1

Peter watched after the bright blue van until it was swallowed whole by the darkness. He remained where he stood, with the cold earth damp underfoot, even after he could no longer hear the low hum of the engine in the distance.

What was he waiting for?

Everything, probably. But first and foremost, he was waiting for his head to catch up with the speed of his heart, for his limbs to respond to the adrenaline that was fast pumping through them.

Their departing exchange still reverberated through his ears.

_"I'm a Priest,"_

_"That's fine. Be a Priest."_

And she'd meant it. Every word. That's what was so perplexing about Assumpta Fitzgerald. It seemed that she was fighting this – whatever _this_ was – every bit as hard as Peter was.

Although he had little experience with women, it seemed to the Priest that the female interest in him piqued because of and not in spite of his vocation.

Assumpta was different however. She hadn't once propositioned him or even outwardly flirted with him. When it came to Assumpta, all that he was truly aware of was the depth of his own feeling.

Painfully aware.

As he began to lose all sensation in his toes, Peter decided to retreat for the veritable warmth of his own vehicle. He didn't envy Brendan, Michael and Siobhan, currently wading through mud to hide fake Roman artefacts under bushes and beneath trees in Kilnashee woods, but he respected their dedication all the same. He admired their ability to act on whatever their heart willed.

It was more than he could say about himself.

With an impatient sigh, Peter started the car and soon found himself on dry road once again. He had half expected to spot Assumpta's van some way along the way but there was no sign of her. She must have driven away at breakneck speed, desperate to escape the embarrassing spectacle the local curate had made of himself.

Peter felt his cheeks redden. Things were getting worse. He needed to get this under control. If he didn't – well, Father Mac had already assured his charge that county Wicklow wasn't the only parish in want of a Catholic Priest.

Yes, Peter decided. He needed to get this under control. The problem was, he didn't have the faintest idea where to start.

* * *

As soon as the door closed behind her, Assumpta made a beeline for the bar. Pouring herself a large glass from one of the open wine bottles in the fridge, the landlady considered the evening's events.

It was always one step forward and two steps back with Peter. Just as he began to open up, to even hint that this thing they'd danced around for close to three years hadn't been entirely in her own head, he retreated. Quickly. Until the next time, of course.

Assumpta mentally added tonight's exchange to the many 'almost' moments that the Priest and the publican had already shared. The time she'd given Peter a signed petition to keep him from leaving. The bottle of wine they'd imbibed after Assumpta had been accused of wanting what she couldn't have.

The night of the play rehearsal.

Although nothing untoward had occurred during any of those encounters, each played a part in chipping away at the crumbling façade of their platonic relationship.

Tonight's encounter almost blew a hole through it.

Peter had held her hand – he had actually touched her. For a split second, it seemed that he would never give it back. But then their friends returned, the spell was broken and Peter, like the coward he was, tried to fob her off with his 'I'm a Priest' speech.

Honestly, did he think that she didn't know that already? With just three words, Peter had manipulated the situation – made it seem that it was she who was making all of the untoward advances. The audacity of the man!

Draining her wine glass in one, Assumpta moved to pour another but stopped as she saw Niamh's hastily scribbled note on the order pad behind the bar.

_Leo called again. _

There was nothing else – not even a phone number. The publican knew all too well what Niamh thought of her friend's reluctance to return her former boyfriend's advances. Even her handwriting was passive aggressive.

_'You could do a lot worse, you know... They're hardly beating the door down.' _Niamh had so astutely reminded her earlier that day.

_'What are you waiting for, Assumpta?' _

And there it was. For so long, the publican had kidded herself that she didn't need a man in her life – she wasn't some wallflower waiting for someone to ask after her dance card. But the truth was, Assumpta was waiting. Waiting for something that would never arrive.

This had to stop. _She_ had to stop. She needed to move on with her life. With one hand on the cordless telephone and the other clutching her refilled glass, Assumpta began to ascend the stairwell, dialing the number she knew almost as well as her own.

"Hi, it's me – listen, I know it's late but… can you come over?"

* * *

_So, who do you reckon is coming over...?_

_Fair warning, I had intended to make my next story a lighthearted comedy but, now i'm a few chapters in, i'm afraid this might be another saucy angst. Sorry!_

_Rating will almost definitely change - and sooner rather than later - but I promise, i'll try to limit the M-rated content to one chapter (maybe two!) _

_Reviews and feedback very, very welcome._


	2. Chapter 2

Peter's hand visibly shook as he returned the receiver to its cradle. He cast an eye over to the glowing display of the VCR. 12.17am. It was late – far too late to be abandoning the house he'd only just returned to and hotfooting it over to Fitzgeralds.

He hadn't asked why Assumpta wanted to see him – that was painstakingly obvious. All he'd done was merely nod and mumble a muted promise that he'd be right over.

Checking his reflection in the hallway mirror, the curate combed his fingers through his hair hastily. His heart was beating fiercely beneath his heavy overcoat. Everything told him to stay put, that this was a bad idea. But another voice spoke to him – the other voice that _hoped_ it was a bad idea.

_Oh god…._ Peter gripped the sideboard for support. Possibilities flooded his brain. Assumpta had wanted to continue their conversation from woods, that much was certain, but to what end?

There was only one way to find out.

With a deep breath and one final look in the mirror, the nervous curate pocketed his front door keys and headed out into the cold night air.

* * *

Assumpta paced the length of the pub as she waited for the inevitable knock on the door. In the ten minutes since she'd hung up the phone, the publican had managed to re-apply her make up twice and simultaneously polish off an entire bottle of French Viognier.

Light-headed and ever so slightly nauseous, she ran her rehearsed speech through her head. _You can't keep doing this Peter… what the hell do you think you're playing at? You need to get off the fence… It's either the Church or me – you can't love us both…_

Wait – no, not love. Don't bring that into it, Assumpta chided. Keep this formal – _protect yourself._

She just needed to ask him to stop acting so irrationally when he was around her. To either be her friend or leave her the hell alone. She wasn't a parishioner – she wasn't even devout. There was no reason for the curate to continue spending the little time and money that he had at her pub.

She wanted to return Leo's call – heck, she was _going_ to return his call but first she had to put Peter in his place. Give this confusing thing they had language – give it a name. Friendship? Maybe. Nothing? Probably.

Love...?

Just as Assumpta mulled over the implications of the latter, there was a muffled knock at the back door. Typical of Peter that he was more worried about the neighbours than what it meant to be invited to a single woman's home after midnight. She headed into the kitchen and loudly wrenched open the door, as if to spite him.

Peter stood awkwardly on the doorstep. Wordlessly, Assumpta moved aside to allow the curate in and wordlessly he entered, his hands kept firmly in his pockets despite the warmth emanating from the Aga.

She was going to offer him a drink – a nightcap, perhaps but the words hitched in her throat. Silently, she stepped into the pub and poured them both a generous measure of the weighty Barossa Shiraz she'd opened instead. _Dutch courage_, the publican reasoned as she walked back into the kitchen and handed Peter his glass.

"Thanks," he mumbled, finally removing his hands from his pockets. With a hasty gulp followed by another, he commented lightly, "This is good."

Inclined to agree, Assumpta took another sip but was quick to realise that her head was beginning to catch up with the effects of the bottle of wine that she'd polished off earlier. Gradually she sat down and indicated to Peter that he should do the same.

Neither party spoke. Instead, they kept their focus firmly on the own respective drinks, Peter examining the syrupy legs that formed against his glass as the wine quivered involuntarily.

He stowed his trembling hand onto his lap. Better Assumpta didn't see how nervous she made him. Better to pretend that this meeting wasn't anything out of the ordinary for the Priest.

But his sweating brow gave him away.

"Is it too hot in here?" Assumpta questioned, "Can I take your coat?"

"It's fine," he assured her, wiping his forehead nervously. "Why am I here, Assumpta?"

Whether it was from the inflection in his voice or the hopeful yet terrified look in his eyes, Assumpta knew immediately that Peter had entertained some theories of his own to why he was drinking alone with the publican in the middle of the night.

"To talk!" she exclaimed immediately. "Just to talk…"

"About?"

Assumpta clicked her tongue at his insolence. "Really? You're going to play it this way, are you – "

"Play it what way? Look – " Peter clenched his teeth, "I'm not sure what you want from me."

His companion shook her head impatiently. "When have I ever asked you for anything?"

"You haven't"

"And I won't." Assumpta assured him. "But know this – I'm not going to put my life on hold forever."

"Meaning?"

Assumpta tried to align her rapidly forming thoughts. She wasn't making sense – she knew this. Peter stared at her imploringly, his eyes filled with concern. Sifting through her confusion, she admitted solemnly, "I can't do this anymore."

Peter leaned forward in his chair, slightly panicked. "Do what?" he retorted innocently, well aware of the answer.

"Peter… don't insult us both by pretending this is all in my head."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

At this final comment, the publican's mounting rage finally boiled over. "You're impossible, you know that?" With a jolt, she rose from her chair and paced urgently into the expanse of the bar.

Peter followed in earnest, his heart threatening to beat from his chest. Were they really going to do this? Now?

When he found her, Assumpta was slumped heavily on a barstool.

"What do you want, Peter?"

_So many things_… his mind wandered. "It's not that simple."

"It _is_ that simple."

"Not for me – not from where I stand." Peter neared the publican and moved to put a hand over hers. Then, thinking better of it, he placed it on the bar instead, allowing it to linger in the space in front of hers. "Look, is this about tonight? At the woods – "

Assumpta rolled her eyes. "You're unbelievable," she muttered under her breath.

"Because if it is," he continued "I'm sorry I put you in that position, I really am. But I meant what I said. I'm a Priest –"

"Then why are you even here?"

"You asked me!"

"And would you do anything that I asked?"

Peter tried to ignore the loaded nature of her question. "Probably," he added carefully.

Assumpta felt her palms perspire as she mulled over the implications of his answer. "Anything?"

Before he could prevent it, Peter heard himself utter "Everything." Their fingertips were touching now. This was dangerous territory, the Priest realised but regardless he kept his hand where it was and held his focus. "What do you want, Assumpta."

All she needed to do was utter one single word and Peter's mouth would probably be on hers. The trembling hand that was currently hitching at her fingertips would probably be exploring the depths of her hair and then her face before settling on the curve of her waist.

All she needed to say was the single word that was etched on her lips.

_You…_

But she couldn't. "Closure," she answered instead, realising soon after that this word would land her in hot water too.

Peter smirked nervously. "Closure?" he repeated, trying desperately to hide the disappointment in his voice. "From what?"

"From this! Look, Peter you have to let me live my life"

"I didn't realise you weren't."

Assumpta snatched her hand away and returned back behind the bar. "Two dates in three years… do you really think that I'm living my life to the fullest?"

She noticed the curate shift uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm not stopping you," he pouted.

"What if I told you that I'd met someone?"

"Have you?"

"Don't avoid the question," she warned, momentarily elated by the panic in Peter's voice.

"I'd be please for you. Of course, I would be pleased for you Assumpta. You deserve to be happy."

"Leo wants to get back with me."

Her statement hung heavily in the air for a moment before either party spoke. "Your ex-boyfriend, Leo?"

Assumpta nodded carefully. "He's moving back to Ireland. Wants to give things another go."

Peter felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. "Well, that's wonderful!" he started, a little too enthusiastically before noticing that Assumpta's gaze had fallen directly on him. "Isn't it?"

"It could be."

Nervous by the continued attention she was giving his each and every word, Peter broke eye contact and stared into his lap. "Then what's stopping you."

He hadn't meant it as a question and so was surprised when after a moment's silence, his companion shook her head and with tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, stuttered. "I don't know."

She was openly crying now and it took all that Peter had to keep himself from going directly to her; from wrapping her fragile form with the length of his arms and humming sounds of consolation into her hair.

Firmly rooted to the barstool, he decided instead to hold out a hand in the vague direction of the publican. He hadn't expected what came next. If he had, perhaps the Priest could have better prepared himself for resisting the inevitable.

Unconsciously, Assumpta accepted Peter's proffered hand and squeezed it gratefully, as if fully appreciating the solace it offered. It was meant to be a gesture. It was meant to be friendly. How was he to know how much power a single touch would yield over them?

As their fingers entwined, Peter locked eyes with Assumpta. By now, she'd moved closer and was standing merely a metre away. As the seconds wore on, Assumpta closed the gap until eventually she was there, hovering right above him.

Their knees bumped together with excruciating restraint as the publican neared further still. Their hands, once simply tangled by the length of their digits were now firmly attached. Peter ran the knuckle of his index finger along the width of her palm, generating an open-mouthed gasp from his companion.

He studied her mouth carefully, as if committing its crevices to memory. The fullness of her pout was intoxicating. How many times had Peter wanted to touch it? To hold it in between his own pursed lips…

"Why am I always thinking of you?"

Assumpta's admission took them both by surprised. As soon as the words left her mouth, she flushed bright red and attempted to swallow any subsequent phrases by biting down hard on her bottom lip.

The revelation alone threatened to push Peter over this edge. But this, coupled with the vision of Assumpta wrestling with the physical manifestations of her desire rendered the Priest utterly senseless.

He needed to kiss her. Now.

Releasing her hand, Peter lurched forward to grab the sides of Assumpta's face. Within seconds his mouth was on hers, his hands sidled up in the tangle of her hair as they stumbled clumsily to the back wall.

The reality of their kiss was even better than Peter had imagined. Her mouth, sweet from wine was hot against his, scorching his tongue as the Priest ventured in deeper, harder.

Returning his advances in kind, Assumpta ran her open palms along the muscles in his back, settling her thumbs eventually in the loops of his belt. Their kiss intensified as she tugged him towards her, drawing her leg upwards as he pinned her against the jamb of the kitchen door.

It was intoxicating. She was intoxicating. But things were getting out of control. They needed to stop but neither party showed the willing, or even the ability to do this.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and with lips swollen, Peter couldn't help but reclaim her again with a second and third open-mouthed kiss, each administered quickly and defiantly; each a reminder that there may be no repeating this.

"I – I can't feel my legs." Peter whispered unexpectedly.

Assumpta grinned broadly and placed a hand on his thigh. "They're still there."

"You're sure?"

"I think so," she wagered. "What else would be keeping you upright?"

Peter flashed a wry smile and gestured to the wood beneath his palms. "I think this door has a lot to do with it."

He looked so adorable. Sexy and sweet in equal measures, from the mess of his hair to the bright of his smile.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," Peter admitted eventually.

"What's stopped you?"

"What hasn't?" Mulling over their new situation, he let out an exasperated sigh. "I'm so confused,"

"I know."

"But I guess that's to be expected, right?"

"Probably."

Peter smirked at her candour. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

Before she could prevent herself, Assumpta joked, "I think I've been easy enough for one evening."

Peter smiled shyly. "Not for my liking."

Even as the words left his mouth, Peter regretted them. He didn't want to cheapen this – he certainly didn't want to entertain the possibility of anything else happening tonight, no matter how much certain parts of the Priest piqued at the prospect. "I didn't mean –"

"I know," she assured him quickly.

"I should go,"

Assumpta tried to hide her disappointment. "You should."

As they walked solemnly to the back door, each taking extra care not to touch for fear that it would be their undoing, dozens of unspoken questions filled the ether.

Peter attempted one. "So, what are you going to tell Leo?"

"That all depends on what you tell me."

The pair shared an uneasy silence as the heat from the room escaped through the open door.

"We will talk," the Priest assured her as he stepped into the night. "I just have to think first."

His companion flashed him a knowing smile. "Oh Peter," she chastised. "It's not what's in your head that I need to hear."

With those departing words, Assumpta closed the door, leaving Peter alone on the other side and more confused than ever.

* * *

_Thanks for the great feedback you've all been leaving. It's always nerve-wracking when you submit a chapter but you great people always say the loveliest things. _

_More to follow shortly..._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N Wow - i'm overwhelmed by the love for this story! I vowed to update less frequently this time around but what can I say? Your support and enthusiasm for the stuff that goes on in my brain makes me want to forgo every other interest I have and keep on writing. I must say, i'm saving heaps of cash by not going out! _

_Anyway, without further ado... here's your latest installment (with a nod to the shower scene in Bridget Weinstock's latest excellent fic)_

* * *

The sounding alarm was almost a respite from the hours of intermittent sleep. Peter maintained his position, on the flat of his back with eyes staring at the stain on the ceiling, until the noise desisted of its own accord.

He hadn't slept. In all honesty, how could he? Barely a few hours before, he'd been in ecstasy. After years of wondering, he was now fully able to report that making out with Assumpta Fitzgerald really was as good as his imagination suggested.

His insomnia was spent cataloging every detail, every touch and stowing it away safely in his long-term memory. Her sounds. Her scent. The way her hands ran achingly down the length of his back. How she goaded him to kiss harder by sucking gently on his proffered tongue, consuming him from within.

_Oh, Assumpta…_

The possibility that this might, nay would, probably happen again was almost too much for Peter to consider. The prospect of even more occurring between them was downright intoxicating.

When the alarm bells began to chime again, the curate saw it as a sign that he should stop lazing around and thinking about Assumpta. He would shower and think about her instead.

But standing naked under the torrent of steaming water only exasperated the matter. On any normal day, the physical manifestation of Peter's carnal thoughts would be handled cleanly and quickly with a short sharp blast of ice-cold water. This morning however, no amount of cold water would suffice. In the safety of his shower cubical, the Priest gave in to the desire that he'd so often wrestled with and with one name formed on his lips, he found his ultimate release.

It was only after his craving was quietened, at least for the moment, that Peter could fully consider the admission Assumpta had made last night.

_Why am I always thinking of you? _

These words could have so easily been uttered by his own tongue. She thought about him? Since when? Peter wagered that it wasn't as often as he thought about her.

Although part of him danced with joy when she had said this, he couldn't help but feel the weight of what this meant.

He would have to climb down from the fence. Assumpta had forced him onto a ladder.

Peter had said that they would talk and he fully intended to keep this promise, but first he needed to confess his sin to the last person he wanted to be privy to this new development.

Father MacAnally.

* * *

As the lunchtime rush came and went, Assumpta remained at the mercy of her wandering imagination. That kiss – his kiss – was more extraordinary that she'd ever thought possible. Surely it took years of practice to hone a technique as good as that?

His touch was a veritable juxtaposition of sensations – tender yet passionate; urgent but also slow. The way he looked at her. The feel of his hands on her face…

If nothing else, the memory of her midnight encounter would be locked forever in Assumpta's bank of Happy Thoughts.

For once, the publican was relieved to be single-manning it behind the bar. The absence of Niamh or even Peggy meant she was free to linger in the privacy of her inward machinations.

"Penny for 'em, Assumpta?"

Right on cue, her daydreaming was brought to an abrupt halt. "Brendan," she exclaimed, breathlessly. "Pint of the usual?"

The teacher nodded distractedly, noticing the flush on the woman's cheeks as she handed him his glass. If he didn't know any better, he would swear that the landlady was in love.

_Pffttt…_ the schoolteacher chided inwardly. _Fat chance of that happening here. _

* * *

"You wanted to see me Father Clifford?"

Peter stood awkwardly at the door of Father MacAnally's office, boring a hole in the floor with his fidgeting feet. He didn't acknowledge his superior right away. His practiced speech had all but flown from the young curate's head as soon as he'd stepped into the Rectory.

Mistaking Peter's silence for insolence, the older Priest piped up. "Well get on with it, won't you. I don't have all day."

"Something has happened – " The words left Peter's mouth before he could process them.

"Yes..." Father Mac encouraged.

"I…"

"Father Peter, do you care to be anymore specific? I would imagine that quite a lot has happened since last we spoke. The sun rose up this morning, the Yen is up on the Dollar –"

"I kissed Assumpta."

The old Priest narrowed his eyes. "I see."

"I think you know," he continued, "that I would never have acted so irrationally had it not been for some genuine feelings on my part."

"And these feelings – what is it that they tell you to do now?"

"I'm not sure." Peter stared at his hands doubtfully. "But I have to do something."

"And what would you propose?"

"I don't know."

Father Mac, albeit wholly unsurprised by this new development, could only hazard a guess to what Peter would decide if left to his own devices. No, something had to be done – something drastic.

"Peter, have you ever thought about taking a sabbatical?"

"You mean, like a Retreat?"

The old man shook his head, "No – not quite. I mean a break of sorts. A week, or maybe two away from your religious duties."

"Away from the parish?"

"Away from _every_ parish." Father MacAnally smirked, "C'mon, Peter. Haven't you ever wondered how the other half live?"

His companion struggled to ascertain his meaning. "You mean, stop being a Priest?"

"Temporarily of course." Father Mac interjected. "It sometimes helps to get some distance – to remember why you became a Priest in the first place."

Confused, Peter lightly pinched his furrowed brow. "I don't see how that will help me with Assumpta. Being a Priest isn't the issue here – keeping my vow is."

"You're not hearing me, Peter," the old man chastised. "You'll be taking a _complete_ break from being a Priest... vows included"

An awkward silence fell over the room.

Peter couldn't believe what he was hearing. "And this is sanctioned by Rome?" he stuttered.

"Not officially, but they're aware."

"You mean others have done this before?"

"More thank you would think…" Father MacAnally added cryptically.

Neither man spoke for a moment. Peter tried to search for another rebuttal – another reason why he shouldn't do this – but his tired brain drew a blank.

A break would be nice, he conceded. Though not for any of the lascivious reasons that his superior suggested. He could visit the folks in Manchester. He could live in jeans for an entire week!

He could spend more time with Assumpta…

"So, what do you say then?" Father Mac snapped Peter from his reverie. "Father David could take on some of your duties and I could do the rest."

"How long should I take?"

"Seven days ought to do it. If you start now, you can be back for Sunday Mass."

"A week away from being a Priest." Peter considered his next words carefully. "What makes you so sure that I will want to come back?"

His superior smiled. "They always do, Father Clifford. They always do."


	4. Chapter 4

As her final customer finally got up to leave, Assumpta sank here weary limbs heavily onto one of the vacated Chesterfields by the fire.

It had been a long day. Longer still owing to the effects of last night's excess – and not only the wine. Every time that blasted bell above the door sounded, the publican would look up expectantly, equally hoping and dreading that Peter would appear.

With the memory of their kiss still etched on her lips, it was impossible to think straight.

She had asked Peter for closure but he seemed to have delivered quite the opposite. She was tired and wretched and more confused than ever.

From behind her, Assumpta could hear that dreaded bell sound again.

"We're closed," she muttered, for once not tempted to turn around.

"Not even for a half?" A soft English accent snapped her from her reverie.

"Hi…"

"Hi" Peter returned, equally nervous. "I hope you don't mind. The light was on, and I thought – "

"No, it's fine. Great even." Assumpta stowed her sweating hands in her pockets, and action that was mirrored by her visitor.

"So…"

"So." Assumpta rolled her eyes in annoyance – at herself and at Peter. She'd vowed that their next meeting wouldn't be awkward but here they were. Tongue-tied and self-conscious.

"I heard the woods had been saved. That's good news."

"For the badgers I suppose." Assumpta handed Peter a pint of his usual.

"Thanks. You still think Brian was onto a money-spinner there?"

"I guess we'll never know."

Her companion took a thirsty gulp from his glass. "I think that sometimes it's better to preserve what you have than to brood over what might have been."

It had been an off-hand comment with no real resonance to their own situation, the publican told herself, but Peter's words still burned.

"I guess so."

"Oh, no. I didn't mean…" Realising that he had been misinterpreted, Peter searched hastily for a way to salvage this; to convey the news he'd intended to deliver tonight.

"Look, it's late…" Assumpta started. "I should probably –"

Peter's eyes were wide with panic. "No, wait. I didn't finish…"

"Then finish."

"I had a conversation with Father MacAnally today."

"That must've been nice for you."

"Ordinarily no," the Priest explained. "But today – he was quite forthcoming."

"About?"

"What do you think?"

The landlady stepped back, aghast. "You told him?"

"I had to." It was now Peter's turn to be astounded. "I couldn't really have kept this a secret – "

"I have!"

"That's different," he explained carefully. This conversation was not going as well as he'd imagined. "Look, I told him that my feelings for you – "

"You have feelings for me?"

He looked at her like she'd gone mad. "Of course. Last night, I thought that was evident – "

"Nothing was _evident _last night." Assumpta drew her hand to her forehead in exasperation. "What feelings?"

"How do you –?"

"Envy, admiration, obsession, lov –" the publican caught herself. "Lust," she said instead. "Those are all feelings. Which of them are yours?"

"Sort of all of them – when it comes to you." Peter admitted with a crooked smile but Assumpta didn't look convinced. "Look, all I know is there is something here. For good or for bad, I can't seem to drive you out of my head."

He eyed her warily hoping for some flicker of understanding. Drawing a blank, he continued, "I think we owe it to ourselves to see what _this_ is…"

A breath hitched in Assumpta's throat. Was this really happening? Although her heart swelled with expectation, her cautious head encouraged her to ask, "I wonder what your boss will have to say about that."

"God knows me well enough –"

"And Father Mac?"

"It was his idea."

Assumpta's hopeful heart suddenly deflated. Frank MacAnally never suggested anything that wasn't in his own interest.

Picking up on her trepidation, Peter approached the publican cautiously. He moved to put a reassuring hand onto Assumpta's shoulder but remembered all too well what such a gesture had led to last time. No, tonight he'd have to appease her with words and words alone.

Scanning his mind for the perfect thing to say, just one simple, partially true phrase presented itself. "I'm no longer a Priest."

Immediately his companion glanced up to greet his expectant gaze. "You what?"

"Today at the Rectory, I told Father MacAnally that I couldn't deny these feelings anymore. I wouldn't." Peter admitted, his heart racing at the new way Assumpta looked at him following this admission. "I have to find out if this is real. I have to see if we could work, so Father Mac suggested –"

But his sentence was cut short. Still reeling from his ground-breaking revelation that he'd left the Church, Assumpta closed the gap between them and caught Peter's mouth with hers.

Resting his hands on the small of her waist, Peter pulled her closer, savouring each and very aspect of this charged embrace. Her lips were as soft and sweet as he remembered and their kiss, just as fervent.

Breathlessly, Assumpta pulled away and mumbled, "You're sure?"

"More than ever," he returned automatically without really hearing her. Instead he leant in to reclaim her mouth once more.

Assumpta smiled broadly into their kiss, hardly believing that this was actually happening. He'd given up the priesthood for her. How was that even possible? She edged towards the fireplace, pulling him with her, surrendering her cardigan to the firm grasp of his fists. Within seconds it had fallen to the floor, joined soon thereafter by Peter's coat and shirt.

Somehow they ended up on the couch, Peter pressed against her with the entirety of his frame. At that moment, he realised that he'd never even seen Assumpta's bare shoulders before and now here he was, running his mouth along the flex of her clavicle.

Is this really happening? Were they really doing this? Peter realised immediately why Father Mac had insisted that he take a complete break from being a Priest. He needed to explore this desire that had threatened to devour him. He needed to play this out.

In Peter's wildest imaginations he could never have believed that Assumpta would have responded to this compromise as well as she had. But here she was, untucking his T-shirt from his jeans, kissing him freely and unashamedly, like he'd just told her that he'd left the priesthood for good –

_Oh no… _

As if on cue, Assumpta whispered into his ear. "You're all mine now, you know that? You belong to me."

How could he have neglected to tell her that this was just temporary? That he would probably go back to the Priesthood in a little over a week.

"Sumpta…" he warned, but she took no notice. Instead, she wrestled his T-shirt over his head and was moving her attention to unbuckling his belt. The temptation to let her was overwhelming.

"Assumpta," he tried again but her fingers had found the hardness through his jeans.

"I want you, Peter."

It was impossible to move. It was impossible to think. All Peter was aware of was her raspy voice in his ear and the irrepressible pleasure of her hands against him. "I want you…" he returned desperately.

As more garments joined the piles of clothes on the floor, it became agonisingly clear that just a thin layer of material divided them.

As if realising this herself, Assumpta slowed the pace of her kiss. She stared at Peter and asked hopefully. "You really left?"

"In a manner of speaking…"

Her brow wrinkled at this new ambiguity. "Meaning…"

Peter chose his next words carefully. "I've taken a sabbatical."

Judging by the horrified expression on the publican's face, he had chosen incorrectly.

"You what?"

"Other Priests," he explained trying to hide the panic in his voice, "when faced with a similar situation, they take a holiday of sorts. A break from the priesthood."

"A holiday?"

From the way she spat those words, Peter knew that things were heading south – and fast. He had to salvage this. "It just gives us a few days. To find out what it is we have here."

Assumpta, suddenly feeling very exposed, hastily began to do up the buttons on her dress. "Well, we all know what you had in mind to pass the time."

"What? No – I didn't. I never thought…"

"Stop."

"No, really. When Father Mac suggested this –"

"Wait. What did you say?"

_Oh no._ "He said that maybe a break would help."

Assumpta looked as if she might explode. "Help with what exactly?"

Ignoring the obvious implications of her question, Peter offered, "Help me to figure this out. Decide what it is that I want."

"So, what? He's giving you relationship advice now?"

"Hardly." Suddenly painfully aware of his own nudity, Peter began to scan the room for his clothes. "Look, it's not like I could talk to anyone else about this."

"You can talk to me. You can always talk to me."

"Not about this."

"Then what are we even doing here?" Assumpta sunk her shoulders in dismay and walked over to the door. "You can go now."

"And then what?"

"Just leave, Peter."

"No. Not until you tell me that I haven't messed this up."

Assumpta shook her head soberly. "There's nothing to mess up."

"Wait. Please wait. Let me make this right."

"Goodnight, Peter." she whispered, her eyes focussed on anything but his face.

"Assumpta, please."

"Goodnight." This time she looked pointedly at him. The look of hurt in her eyes was impossible to miss.

Peter stepped begrudgingly into the cold night air. "I'm sorry. I…" but it was already too late. Assumpta was gone with the door, firmly closed behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

The alarm sounded far too quickly for Assumpta's liking. As she lay on her back, eyes focussing wearily on the light-fitting, it felt as if she'd only just gone to sleep.

It was true. Sleep had been hard to come by last night. After Peter left, all she could do to keep the tears at bay was to clean the pub from top to bottom, diverting her attention to any menial task that presented itself.

By 2am the bar was more ordered than it had been in months, which was more than she could say about herself.

How could she have been so stupid? Of course Peter wouldn't leave the priesthood – how could he? It was all he knew. It was all he loved. Father Frank MacAnally knew this as well as anyone. All he'd suggested was a way for Peter to realise this once and for all.

Assumpta grumbled audibly and hit the snooze button on her alarm. She'd be damned if she allowed that self-satisfied hobbit of a man put a wedge through her life and her happiness. But what was the alternative?

Try as she might, she couldn't shake the feeling that going after Peter would be a terrible mistake.

But was it one that she was willing to make?

* * *

Peter hung up his cordless telephone, feeling better than he had all day. Last night had been an unmitigated disaster – well, in the most part. He wasn't sure if Assumpta would ever forgive him for not coming clean at the start.

It occurred to him to clarify his situation, really it had, but as he was discovering, when it came to Assumpta, his thinking and doing were rarely in sync.

But now he'd actually made a plan for his week off. He couldn't stay here – that much was obvious – but the week would be an exercise in futility if he didn't spend it, at least in part, with Assumpta.

The difficult thing would be convincing her to agree to it.

As if on cue, the phone started to ring in his hand.

"Hello, Father Clifford," he answered automatically.

"Now is that strictly true?"

"Assumpta!" Fortunately for Peter, his surprise managed to eclipse his delight. "I thought you weren't speaking to me?"

The publican's eye roll was so aggrandised, it was audible. "I'll let you away with it, just this once."

"I'm glad."

"Thought you might be."

All they heard was white noise for a while, each preoccupied by the unanswered questions that plagued them – each dwelling heavily on the memory of last night.

"So, how's your first day of freedom?"

Peter grinned widely, relieved just to be talking normally with her again. "Good. Great, actually. I've been making plans all morning."

"Oh, yeah?" she replied warily.

"Nothing major. Just travel arrangements."

Assumpta's voice dropped. "Oh."

"Wait, no – sorry I'm not being clear. I was never too good on the phone. Are you busy? Can we meet?"

The line went silent for a moment, so he clarified. "Somewhere public."

"Okay, then." Assumpta agreed quietly. "By the stream in 10 minutes?"

Peter fingered the telephone cord like a teenager, beaming widely. "See you there."

* * *

The publican was the first to arrive. The pub was empty when she left, affording Assumpta the opportunity to lock the door and sneak away unobserved.

Although some part of her appreciated the clandestine nature of whatever she had with the Priest, a more significant part couldn't bear the illicit nature of it all. Neither was married, nor was the union at all extraordinary. They were similar ages, from similar backgrounds. All that kept them apart was some archaic law written in a dead language for a faith that Assumpta didn't even ascribe to.

She'd be damned if something as insignificant as that would keep her from almost certain happiness. No, now was the time for action but she'd have to tread carefully. No more dangerous liaisons. In fact, no more liaisons whatsoever! A line was drawn in the sand and she'd be damned if she would be the first to cross it.

"Hey."

Peter's arrival tested this promise. As he drew closer, Assumpta could immediately tell that everything about the not-so-current Priest exuded a kind of measured confidence.

From they way he dressed (stonewash jeans, loafers and a dark red fisherman's jumper) to the way he held her in his gaze, Peter looked entirely comfortable – which was more than she could say about herself.

"Nice spot," he commented on their decidedly picturesque surroundings.

"Where isn't in this town?"

"Fair point," he smiled. "Thanks for meeting me."

"S'okay. I can't stay long though."

"Me either," Peter returned. "I have to pack."

Assumpta felt her eyes widen in panic. He was leaving? She tried to keep her voice disinterested. "Oh?"

"Yeah," he took a breath. "I'm flying to Manchester tonight."

"Oh." Everything in her sank. "How long will you be staying?"

"The week. Longer if…" Peter caught himself. Now wasn't the time for making major decisions. "Anyway, I have something for you – apologies, it's not gift-wrapped."

His companion took the white plastic bag from his proffered hand, careful not to touch anything else as she did so. "What's this?"

"Just some supplies from Hendleys."

Inside the bag was a small selection of tacky gossip magazines, a bottle of water and a sleep mask. Confused, Assumpta pulled out the latter and looked at Peter questioningly.

"I booked another ticket – if you're interested?" By now the Englishman could no longer hide his nerves.

"Interested?"

Peter's eyes softened. "Come with me?"

"To England?"

"I've booked us on the same flight but your ticket's fully flexible, so if you want to join me later in the week, that's fine too." Peter paused for breath, although briefly. "I know you've got the pub to think about and I don't want to force you to make a decision now, but I'd really like for you to be there."

"Okay, then." But her small voice went unnoticed by Peter.

"So there's no pressure, okay? I know this is weird, but –"

"I said okay, Peter."

A slow smile gradually formed on his mouth. "Really?"

"Really."

Peter wanted to pull her into his warm embrace but instead he hugged himself and beamed widely. "Are you okay to leave the pub tonight?"

"Sure, I can always ask Niamh to cover for a few days." Assumpta nodded slowly as a plan began to form in her head. "She's been on at me to visit Leo in London – she'd bound to cover if I tell her that's where I'm going."

Peter looked worried for a moment, leading Assumpta to add, "Rest easy squire, I'm not actually going to see him."

"But won't he call? While you're away?"

Assumpta reached out to assure him. "I'll phone Leo today to tell him there's someone else."

Taking her hand with his own, Peter admitted shyly, "I've never been anybody's 'someone else' before."

"Well, just so long as I'm not yours forever."

His smile faded. Holiday or none, Assumpta would always remain his 'someone else' until the curate severed all ties with the Church.

Was he ready to do this? He had a week to decide. And now Assumpta had agreed to spend it with him, the week ahead looked very promising indeed.

* * *

_A/N Thanks to all who are still following this little story. Your reviews are awesomesauce! Warning - the next few chapters enter uncharted territory for me. FLUFF! Great fun to write a happy P/A story for a change but fear not, there will be some more saucy angst ahead!_


	6. Chapter 6

With half an eye open, Assumpta realised they were still in the Hertz rental Peter had picked up at the airport.

At least the scenery had changed. Gone were the red and amber lights of passing cars, now replaced by miles of verdant pine.

"Morning," Peter looked shattered. Pale and red-eyed, his face was firmly fixed on the solitary road ahead. "I stopped for coffee."

In the cup holder was a polythene cup steaming with the promise of caffeine within.

Gingerly taking a sip, Assumpta looked at the clock on the dashboard. "6am? We've been driving for two hours! Where the hell are you taking me?"

"You'll see." Peter tried to repress a smirk.

"When you said that we were going to Manchester, I thought you'd be visiting your parents – your friends?"

"And I will, I just want to make a pit stop first."

"A pit stop?" Assumpta questioned. "We're half way to bloody London."

Peter smiled at her sense of direction. "We're going the other way."

"Scotland?"

"Not that far!"

Assumpta struggled to remember what was between Manchester and Scotland but drew a blank. "I give up. Where are we going?"

The driver grinned conspiratorially. "It's a surprise."

"Peter!"

"Don't worry, we're almost there," he assured her. "Drink your coffee."

So she did, watching carefully for road signs among the lush green ferns. She hated surprises.

When the car eventually did stop, it was outside a log wood cabin set within acres of woodland. As Assumpta exited the car and took in the surroundings, she noticed that there was a huge lake through the trees.

"Lake Windermere." Peter explained, pulling bags full of groceries from the boot.

"We're in the Lake District?"

"I know this is a bit like replacing countryside with countryside but my sister said I could use her cabin, so…"

Assumpta looked up at the huge house beside the water. "Wait, we're staying here?"

"Do you like it?"

A breath caught in her throat. "It's incredible!"

And he couldn't disagree. Angela Clifford-Webb had certainly done well for herself in her years as a stockbroker. Currently based in Hong Kong, she and her husband spent their summers in this house when they were visiting Manchester.

"When did you find time to get supplies?" Assumpta gestured to his shopping.

"You sleep very deeply… and you snore!"

"You can't know that after one measly nap?"

Peter winked mischievously. "There's still time."

Assumpta was astonished by this growing confidence that her former curate was developing. The further away from St Joseph's they got, the surer Peter was of himself. As he unlocked the door with the spare key hidden beneath the doormat and invited her in, Assumpta soon realised where all of this new-found cockiness came from.

"My God, Peter. You're rich!"

The inside of the house was more impressive than the exterior. From the fine linens and expensive furniture to the original artworks exhibited on the walls, the place oozed affluence.

"Not mine I'm afraid." Peter admitted. "But my sister said we could stay here for as long as we like."

As they stepped onto the hard wood floor to the lavish kitchen-diner at the back of the house, Assumpta immediately felt at home. "How's forever?"

The curate smiled warmly. "Works for me."

The pair shared an easy silence as they put the shopping away into the already amply stocked cupboards.

"We won't go hungry, that's for certain."

"Or thirsty," Peter replied, gesturing to the bottles of Champagne that lined the bottom of the fridge. Taking a bottle out, he suggested, "Breakfast?"

She was about to refuse - she should have refused - but upon inspecting the label beneath the gold-cellophane, her mouth began to salivate. "I'll get the glasses."

* * *

With a flute of Cristal in hand and an uninterrupted view of Lake Windermere, Assumpta realised that this would take a lot to beat.

There was always the company, she admitted happily, as Peter tucked hungrily into their breakfast of smoked salmon, bagels and scrambled eggs.

"What do you want to do today?"

She gestured to the empty bottle of Champagne. "After this I'm not going to be good for much."

"We could take a boat out onto the lake? Pack a picnic maybe…"

"Haven't you eaten enough?"

Peter gulped down the remainder of his Cristal. "You've obviously never seen how seriously I take my food."

"I'm beginning to understand." Assumpta leaned back in her lounger, allowing the sun's rays to warm her skin. "A boat trip sounds nice. Anywhere rent them around here?"

"No need," her host announced proudly. "We can take my brother-in-law's dinghy."

"Is there anything you haven't thought of?"

Peter suppressed a smile. Ever since he'd met Assumpta he'd imagined one day bringing her to his sister's house in the Lakes. In the few times he'd been here, the place was always amply supplied with everything you would need. There was even a hot tub, which he was secretly relieved that she hadn't discovered yet.

"I'll go in and pack some sandwiches," he volunteered immediately, trying to keep from imagining Assumpta in a bikini.

But Peter packed a lot more than sandwiches. When his companion sifted through the picnic hamper she discovered a veritable feast of delicacies. From fresh bread, olives and sun-dried tomatoes to a selection of cheeses and cured meats. He'd even snuck another bottle of Cristal in the cooler.

"Seriously, this is too much." Assumpta rested her head back on the white leather seats of their boat – another under-exaggeration by Peter for this 'dinghy' had its own cabin below decks. "So much for the vow of poverty."

"Ah, we're on holiday. It's okay to break a vow or two." He immediately bit his tongue as he said it. It would be naïve to assume that after everything that had happened, the Priest hadn't at least entertained the idea of more occurring between them. But he'd never intended on bringing this up already.

Picking up on his discomfort, the publican tried to lighten the mood. "Any more of this and I might just let you."

Although she couldn't see his face, she could tell by the way Peter gripped the wheel what reaction her comment had left. A smile crept over her face.

_This was going to be an interesting week._

"So are we going to eat or what?"

Relieved by the change in subject, Peter brought the boat to an abrupt halt. "You don't need to ask me twice."

Assumpta moved over in the hope that he would join her on the decidedly cramped back seat but alas, her companion stayed put on the drivers stool.

"Can I refill your glass?"

"You may, but I'm warning you. Alcohol, food and overnight flights make for a devilish combination," she replied with a wink.

Peter smiled wryly. "I'll take my chances."

As they tucked into lunch, the publican's eyes kept falling on the steps that led to the cabin below. "So what's down there then?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Her friend eyed her suspiciously. "Why?"

"Just getting a feel for the place, is all."

Against his better judgement, Peter indulged her. "Just a bathroom. A bed too, I think."

Curiosity piqued, Assumpta navigated her way to the steps and began to climb down. "Want to check it out?"

Peter felt his hands close into fists. "I…"

"Oh get over yourself," she teased. "I've never been on a boat like this before. I just wanted to see what you get for your money."

"I'm not stopping you."

"Suit yourself." Assumpta stuck her tongue out playfully and disappeared below decks.

When she hadn't returned after a few minutes, Peter nervously poked his head down. "Everything okay? "

But he needn't have worried, for there was the publican – flat on her back and snoring softly.

He smiled broadly.

Alcohol, food and overnight flights make for a devilish combination indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N Thank you to all of my lovely reviewers. A little nervous to learn that Eninaj has only just come back from the Lakes, as I am basing my observations of the geography on one brief trip there many, many moons ago! _

_Actually laughed out loud at Bridget's Chekhov's Hot Tub comment! It was only meant to be a throwaway set piece, but maybe i'll see if I can weave it into the story... _

_Oh, this Chapter is especially for Mcbenzy who requested a When Harry Met Sally scene in my last story..._

* * *

After they returned to shore and when Assumpta finally recovered from her embarrassment over passing our drunk in front of the very man she'd been hoping to impress, the holidaymakers retired to the den.

In an attempt to prove his manhood, Peter endeavoured to light a fire, despite having never lived in a house with a working fireplace before.

"Seriously Peter, will you let me just do it."

Struggling to arrange the firewood into a pyramid shape, the curate shook his head. "I've got this. You just concentrate on nursing your hangover."

"For the last time, I was not drunk. I am not hungover."

"Make a habit of passing out after lunch then do we?"

Assumpta pulled a face at his back. "It's called a Siesta smart-arse. It's very European."

Peter smiled warmly and returned to his fire building leaving his guest to luxuriate with her book on the full expanse of the couch. She'd taken an impossibly long bath after they returned from the boat and now smelt and looked even more divine than usual, dressed only in a blue and purple silk kimono.

While he screwed up balls of newspaper, Peter couldn't help but consider their agreed sleeping arrangements tonight. They'd agreed before even leaving Ireland on separate sleeping quarters throughout the trip. Sharing a bed – or even a room – would only lead an inevitable conclusion that neither was at all ready to face, in spite of their previous actions to the contrary.

As he allowed his eyes to linger on the vast expanse of ivory skin peeking through the slits of the dressing gown, the curate immediately regretted that decision.

As if reading his discomfort, exploiting it for her own amusement, Assumpta bent her knee slightly to allow the material to ride even further up her thigh.

Peter twisted the paper until he'd lost all feeling in his hands. It was all he could do to prevent himself from pulling the gown up even higher – from running his mouth along the gaping material allegedly covering her chest.

"Are you hungry?" he heard his mouth utter nervously. "I can make us something if you like? Beans on toast? Cheese sandwiches?"

"You and your stomach." Assumpta murmured under her breath.

But it wasn't his stomach that was the problem. Peter shifted uncomfortably on the rug. "I'll fix some popcorn then. Maybe we can watch a movie too?"

"As long as I get to pick it."

Her companion winced nervously. Judging by that peep show on the couch, Assumpta was sure to pick something R-rated that would only goad the Priest further.

So it was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that he returned to find _When Harry Met Sally_ playing on the television.

"Seriously?" he pleaded.

"Oh, get over it. It's either this or Die Hard and I know which you'd rather."

Handing her the popcorn, he sat down on the floor by her feet. "Good guess" he teased.

"Do I have cooties or something?"

"What?"

The woman gestured to the other side of the couch. "Plenty of room up here, you know."

"I'm fine on the floor," he maintained. "Thought I'd let you stretch out."

"Priests!" Assumpta muttered under her breath. "You make a living out of being uncomfortable."

The curate smirked at her astute observation. _More than you know, Assumpta. _

* * *

The pair were already asleep by the time the credits rolled. After an hour on the hard ground, Peter succumbed to the pain in his back and joined the publican on the couch, which brought a new discomfort of its own.

As the film wore on, Assumpta's bare legs drew closer and closer to Peter's knees, until – under the guise of stretching – they found their way onto his lap, where they remained for the rest of the film.

Although the movie was awful, the curate amused himself by tracing concentric circles on the impossibly soft flesh that cocooned him. He began with the pads of her feet and then, idly following the sparse freckles on her legs, moved to her calves and her knees before settling on the milky ivory of her thigh.

He enjoyed the way her skin pebbled as he touched it. He strained to hear the shallowness of her breathing as his fingertips encroached further up her leg. By comparison, Peter's decidedly more conservative attire shrouded his own arousal. But there was no hiding the tremble of his hand as he approached the uppermost part of Assumpta's thigh.

A breath hitched in both of their throats. Were they really going to do this? Was this allowed?

Tentatively, Peter resumed his upward course, settling finally on the irresistible curve of her behind. _This was okay_, he reasoned. _Pushing the envelope sure, but not opening it entirely. _

For Assumpta however, the sensation was almost unbearable. After an eternity of seemingly running his fingers along every millimetre of her bare legs, this was where he stopped?

In protest, she arched her back slightly, pushing into the full expanse of his hand, forcing the curate's fingertips to grace the irrepressible heat of her inner thigh.

But still he didn't waver. Although his breathing was laboured and his eyes were suddenly transfixed by the film, his hand stayed where it was. Titillating and torturing in equal measure.

After a few minutes of stoicism, Assumpta shifted positions, opting instead to rest her head sleepily on Peter's chest.

As her eyes grew heavy, just one though reverberated through the publican's head.

_I'll get back tomorrow, Peter Clifford. I'll get you tomorrow. _


	8. Chapter 8

Unseasonable sunshine befell the Lakes the very next day, which the curate and the publican saw as a sign to explore their surroundings in the nearby town of Kendal.

The truth of the matter was that both parties knew what another day of solitude would lead them to and although tempted beyond measure, they realised that a day in the company of others would at least quell the opportunity, if not the desire.

From the cobbled streets to the superfluity of independent shops, Kendal was almost entirely like Ballykissangel's nearest neighbour Cilldargan. Neither Peter nor Assumpta brought this up however, neither wanting the memory of home to impress on this holiday. Kendal was hilly too, leading Peter to unconsciously take Assumpta's hand as they ascended the path leading up from the car park.

"Where do you want to go?"

"You tell me," she replied, wrapping her fingers around his tightly and trying to repress a grin. "I've never been here before."

"Well, there's an antiques arcade down this road. Or a sweet shop if you're in the market for any Kendal mint cake… or a Pub?"

"Because I've never been to one of those…"

"Okay, antiquing it is." Peter declared resolutely, leading his companion into a nameless grey stone building.

* * *

Over lunch, they compared their spoils.

"I don't care if it's a fake, I still like it."

Peter shook his head with incredulity. "But it doesn't even look like a genuine Clarice Cliff – and you paid well over the odds for it."

"I don't care. I needed a new milk jug, and here it is." Assumpta admired the angular yellow, orange and green ceramic happily, much to Peter's chagrin.

"You're not actually going to use it, are you?" he balked. "Fake or not it's still a good sixty or seventy years old. Crockery of that age should be admired on a shelf somewhere, never actually used."

"Now where's the fun in that?"

Before Peter could reply, the couple's food arrived – for the hungry northerner, a Lancashire Hot Pot. Assumpta opted for a decidedly gargantuan Ploughman's spread.

Despite having already 'been to a pub', she buckled fairly quickly when her self-appointed tour guide suggested going to this old-fashioned inn for lunch. Similar in size and age to Fitzgerald's, the building gave the illusion of being grandiose and intimate at the same time.

"This place is nice."

"Told you so," Peter agreed, his mouth wrestling with a particularly stubborn carrot.

"It makes me think, you know. What I could do with Fitzgerald's."

Although he didn't mean to, Peter froze at the mention of home. The past two days had been so full of fun and laughter, that he'd almost forgotten that there was a reality outside of this.

Picking up on his discomfort, and immediately wishing she hadn't been so quick to bring up Ballykissangel, Assumpta took a guilty bite of her cheddar, concluding quickly that this was the best cheese she'd ever tasted.

"This is amazing – you have to try it."

Grateful for the change in subject, the curate took a generous bite of the cheese and bread in the publican's proffered hand. "Hey!" she exclaimed in protest. "Leave me with a thumb why don't you."

Peter smiled with his eyes and took his companion's fingers with his own. Around them other diners were too busy with their own conversations to notice the display that was unfolding. This fresh tenderness, once refused light enough to grow, was free to flourish in this new environment.

They shared an easy silence for the remainder of the meal, their left hands entwined on the table's edge.

"What do you want to do now?" Peter asked after their bill had been settled.

"Now there's a question."

"Weather doesn't look up to much," he commented, turning his head to the dark cloud forming on the horizon. "We could go back to the house? Play a board game?"

Assumpta rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh Peter, you certainly know how to show a girl a good time."

"There's alcohol…"

"Going to have to do better than that."

Right on cue the heavens opened, spilling thick drops of rain onto the holidaymakers.

"How about a roof?" Peter added, desperately.

"Done," she called above the torrential downpour as the pair headed hastily back to the car.

* * *

When they finally arrived back, Peter and Assumpta were soaked to the skin.

Owing to a fallen tree 100 yards from their house, the pair had to abandon the car in a nearby street and run coatless and umbrella-less to their own front door.

The dry warmth of the foyer was a welcome relief. Cold, extremely wet and exhausted from the short sprint, all Assumpta could imagine doing at that precise moment was sinking into a hot bath.

But fate had other ideas.

"How can there be no heating?" Peter grumbled, inspecting the radiator. "It was on when we left."

"Has the boiler gone too?"

"It will have if the heaters aren't working. It's all connected."

The publican grimaced. _Oh well. There goes her bath._

"We still have the fire." Peter added hopefully, straining to keep his eyes on his companion's face and not her rain-soaked t-shirt. "Enough fire-wood to last the night too."

Assumpta inspected the meagre pile of logs. "Only if we go to bed early…" Unintentionally, she locked eyes with Peter.

"We can do that," he answered unexpectedly.

Her mind raced at the same velocity of her heart. For once they were in sync. Up to now, their holiday romance had gone no further than a few lingering looks – a single touch, here and there. Was this about to change?

"We could." Despite the confidence in her voice, Assumpta's knees weakened as the possibility of what this evening could hold. What it probably would hold.

"I'll get the fire going."

Assumpta felt her palms sweat at the euphemistic suggestion of his comment. Shaking this off, she gestured to her uncomfortably wet and clinging top and uttered, "I'll change into something less transparent."

Peter nodded assuredly, but his was heart racing. For both their sakes, he hoped that she'd stay true to her word.

* * *

_A/N - Like Assumpta would miss a golden opportunity like this! Thanks for all of your lovely comments. Reading through the story so far, I think Assumpta has come across as a bit wet - where's that notorious Fitzgerald spark?! I guess her crush must have quietened her for a while. We've all been there, right? All I can say is that's all going to change as of the next chapter. Girl is gonna get fierce!_

_Reviews are_ adored!


	9. Chapter 9

Assumpta stared critically at the reflection in the full-length mirror, agonising over her appearance.

Her hair was a lost cause – that much was certain. Still damp from the rain, small curls were beginning to form on her crown. Why did she ever let that hairdresser talk her into having layers cut in?

Scrunching it up into a messy bun, she sighed and devoted her attention to her attire.

Tonight was the night, she'd decided. Tonight she would let Peter know just what he'd missed out on during those many near-encounters. She would seduce him – just as he'd seduced her with every agonizing touch, every look he'd given her in the past few years.

Last night's couch escapades had been the final straw. As much as she hated it, she was completely at his mercy. Her skin physically ached for his hands to be on it. Her mouth seemed to salivate every time he even looked like he wanted to kiss her.

_And that wasn't the only thing… _

Pulling herself together, Assumpta dug through her luggage for the black lacy two-piece she'd packed for such an occasion. Fingering the sheer material, she smiled as she imagined the expression on Peter's face if she came down the stairs wearing this. Wearing only this.

He would jump a mile.

No. Black lace would probably terrify the poor man and embarrass her in the process. Neither of them had the nerve to carry that off. So what could she wear instead?

"What to do… what to do?" she sighed to herself in the mirror. Then she had a brainwave. Forging the clothes in her bag, Assumpta crept into Peter's room and looked through his closet until she'd found what she was looking for.

Running her hands along the thick chequered material, the woman grinned happily.

_Perfect. _

* * *

When Assumpta descended the stairwell, wearing nothing but the Priest's favourite blue and green lumberjack shirt, Peter almost choked on his wine.

"Looks good on you," he eventually managed. _Was she trying to kill him?_

"Thanks," Assumpta replied candidly, allowing her bare shoulder to escape from the unbuttoned neck. "Maybe I'll keep it."

Peter shook his head and returned his focus to the fire. "I'm going to definitely want that back after you're done with it."

His companion smiled and took a nervous gulp of the Barolo he had set out for her. "The fire certainly is burning."

"What?" A flash of suggestion swept his face. "Oh, yeah. I think I may have over done the wood."

"You're telling me." Assumpta sat on the floor next to the inferno. "If I didn't know any better I'd think you were using up all of the firewood on purpose."

Peter smiled at the flames. "I could think of far better moves, Assumpta."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

The publican's cheeks burned. "Like?"

"That red wine for a start."

"Oh, so plying your women with drink. Is that a classic Clifford trick then?"

"One of them." He raised his eyebrows assuredly but his shaky voice gave him away.

"Got any others?"

The question hung in the ether for a moment until Peter answered, regretfully. "Priest."

Assumpta stared down at her wine dumbly. "Peter, you are a Priest."

"Am I?"

"Last time I looked." Her voice was small but full to the brim with sadness. Unhappy with the new direction this evening was taking, Assumpta left Peter's side and took her wine through to the kitchen.

"None of this is easy, Assumpta." Peter followed in after her.

"I wasn't assuming that it was."

"I'm really trying here."

Weaving past him, the publican buried her head in the open fridge and pulled out a random selection of vegetables. "I'm not disputing that."

"Then why are you being so hostile?"

"Me?" Realising she was pointing her chopping knife at the curate, Assumpta slammed it down angrily. "Why'd you have to go bring up the elephant in the room?"

"I'm still an ordained Priest whether I mention it or not…"

"I just thought –" she began before shaking her head and thinking better of it.

"What?"

Assumpta chopped an onion roughly, taking her frustration out on its layers of uneven flesh. "I thought that this week, things between us were going well."

"They were – they are!" he clarified. "But Assumpta, I can't make my decision based on this week alone."

Whether it was owing to the fumes from the onion, or the sincerity in Peter's voice, the publican felt hot tears threaten to spill.

"This is my whole life, we're talking about here…"

Her voice was small. "Mine too, you know."

"I know," he agreed seriously. "I know – I'm just saying, that it's easy to let our wants – our feelings – get the better of us."

"And what is it that you want?"

Peter considered her question carefully, trying desperately not to utter the first word that entered his head. "To do the right thing," he offered eventually.

"By who?"

"By you," he answered quickly before adding in a quiet voice, "and by the Church."

Assumpta rolled her eyes impatiently and tipped the chopped vegetables into a heated frying pan. "Well, that's not easy."

"I'm not saying it is. I'm just saying that's what I want."

"But it's not possible, Peter. I mean, you can't love us both –"

In that moment, the publican wished the ground would swallow her whole. "I'm sorry – that was stupid."

"No, it's not. You're completely right –"

"Still, it doesn't need to be said."

"I think it does. I think…." He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "I think that you deserve so much more than this."

"Yeah, well…"

"Assumpta, look at you!" he allowed his eyes to at last fall on the tails of his shirt, which barely skimmed the tops if her legs. "You could have any man you wanted…"

"Except for the one that I can't." Assumpta bowed her head regretfully, squeezing her eyes shut to keep from mixing tears into the stir-fry.

They shared an uneasy silence following her last pronouncement. Peter hovered uncertainly by the stove, speculating – fearing – that he'd totally messed this up. Occasionally she'd shuffle past him, reaching for various ingredients and throwing them hastily into the pan.

As she travelled by again, he unconsciously reached out for her elbow. "Assumpta…"

"Peter, you don't have to –"

"For what it's worth, I don't, you know..." Peter interrupted fearfully. Was he really about to do this?

"You what?"

"Love you _and_ the Church."

A wave of dread coursed through the publican. Cursing her stupidity at putting words in his mouth that she'd never even heard spoken, Assumpta attempted a nonchalant, "Oh, no?"

"No." Peter answered, moving gradually towards her. "I never knew how that was possible – loving two things so passionately at the same time. Parishioners would often come to me, admitting to the sin of adultery. _I love them both _– they would argue, but I could never once identify…"

By now Peter was achingly close to her, his fingers edging towards her hands.

"Because…" he closed his eyes and took a breath. "When I fell in love with you, I fell out of love with being a Priest almost immediately."

An errant tear now rolled firmly down Assumpta's cheekbone. "You fell in love with me?"

"I've fallen in love with you, Assumpta," he clarified. "Hard."

Peter edged towards her, an anxious smile emerging on his face. Tentatively, he ran a gentle hand through her hair, holding it briefly against her cheek before eventually finding her mouth with his own.

As Assumpta at last felt his lips against hers, the Priest's admission raced through her mind. _He loved her?_

He loved her.

How could something so exhilarating sound so depressing at the same time?

Pulling away, she mumbled. "Now I can't feel my legs."

Running a slow hand along the length of her outer thigh, her companion answered. "They're still there."

The air between them was thick with suggestion. As Peter leant in to kiss her again, Assumpta realised that they were heading ever so gradually to the kitchen surface.

Feeling her feet leave the floor, all the publican was aware of was the sensation of Peter's mouth falling agonizingly slowly against her neck; the buttons of his shirt gradually unfurling at her navel.

One press of her torso and Peter quickly realised that she was totally naked underneath his shirt.

He flinched as if he'd touched hot lava. _Seriously, what was she trying to do to him?_

But Assumpta wasn't going to let him get away that easily. Searching the pained expression in his eyes, the publican guided his hand back beneath the gap in her shirt.

Wordlessly, he complied, his heart threatening to beat from his chest at any given moment.

As soon as his warm hand found her breast, Peter let out a hungry sigh and immediately found her mouth again. He'd never felt something so soft before. It's delicious curve filled his hand completely as her nipple hardened against his palm.

Their kiss intensified. Assumpta ran her fingers through his shorn hair, pulling herself up along his torso as her legs entreated him further. There was no time for objections. No time for second-guesses. All that existed was the heat between them and the heat of the kitchen. The heat emanating from the stove…

_Oh no. _

"Peter, the frying pan!"

The curate immediately grabbed the thankfully wooden handle of the hissing pan, moving it off the heat. Its contents were carbon. Assumpta tried to repress a smile. "Oh well, dinner's done."

"I'd say so…"

The pair caught each other's gaze and shared a slightly hysterical laugh. Climbing down from the worktop, Assumpta discreetly buttoned up her shirt trying not to notice the look of disappointment on her companion's face. The moment had definitely passed.

In a bid to cut the tension, Peter reached for a packet of marshmallows. Handing them to Assumpta, he murmured weakly. "At least we still have the fire."

The publican returned the smile accordingly and tried to banish the nagging feeling that this is the only thing that they'll ever truly have.


	10. Chapter 10

Peter Clifford had mastered the art of making smores during a 6-month summer holiday placement at Camp Amicus outside of Alberta. As a group leader, the then, newly qualified curate was put in charge of all off-site camping. Naturally, fire-building and smores-making became almost second nature to the young Priest following 'at least fifty excursions' to the foothills of the Rocky mountains.

"So that's how you became such an Alpha Male?" Assumpta asked sarcastically, gesturing to the diminishing flames.

"Pipe down, you," he retorted, his mouth full of melted marshmallow. "If it were left to you we'd have burnt noodles and no heat whatsoever."

Assumpta crouched forward on the rug where they sat and took Peter's hand with her own. Eyeing the remnants of gooey confectionary on his thumb, she ran her tongue slowly along the underside of his digit, keeping her eyes in his expectant gaze for the entire time as her mouth closed firmly around it.

"I'd say we'd have heat, don't you think?"

Peter swallowed nervously. "I'd say so…"

They had played this game all evening. Still 'dressed' only in the curate's oversized shirt, Assumpta made a good show of not feeling the cold. Instead she'd coaxed and cajoled him. Making flirty suggestions and double-entendres one minute, while playing hard-to-get the next.

She was tormenting him and what's more, she was taking pleasure from it. Her eyes danced with delight when she caught Peter staring longingly down the neckline of her ever-loosening shirt. She'd positively gleamed when she overheard her companion take laboured breaths as he hunched anxiously over the sideboard under the guise of replenishing their drinks.

Part of him wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smile from her face with his mouth. Take her roughly by the warmth of the smouldering embers; show her just how much of an Alpha Male he could be.

But the other part – the more cerebral part – begged Peter to be patient. Despite the supposed respite the Church had awarded him this week, he didn't want to flout his vows so readily. No, he decided. As much as Assumpta taunted him, Peter would not give in to temptation. He would not succumb to the now painfully apparent physical manifestation of his desire. _He would not let her win._

Of course, this went completely out of the window when Assumpta opened her mouth next.

"So as a seasoned camper, you'll know that the only way to keep truly warm when faced with the elements is to climb naked into a sleeping bag with someone else who is also naked…"

From her slurred speech, it was clear that she was already feeling the effects from the two bottles of Italian red they'd imbibed.

"Well, it's a pity it's hailing rainwater and not sleeping bags outside or you might just have got lucky."

But his companion didn't return his mirth. The mood had suddenly shifted. Capturing his gaze with her own, Assumpta heard herself ask, unexpectedly, "Why does this have to be so difficult, Peter."

"You what?"

"Us. This." Assumpta tried to align her hastily forming thoughts. "If what you said earlier is true, what more is there to think about?"

Peter's perplexed expression encouraged her to continue. Taking a deep breath for courage, she finally asked him, "If you're no longer in love with being a Priest, then why do it? Why give up so much for something you no longer even believe?"

"Now, I didn't actually say that I didn't believe – " he protested. "I just – it's just…"

"What?"

Peter shrugged helplessly. "This is all I've ever known."

Assumpta considered her next words carefully. Tracing her thumb along the back of his hand, she told him, "There's so much more to know, Peter."

The air was thick between them. The fire was crackling its final embers. Time was running out for Peter and Assumpta and they both knew it. Soon, the cold would force them to abandon the lounge completely and retire upstairs to bed. The question of whose bed the curate would be retreating to was still agonizingly unclear.

Peter looked deeply into his companion's eyes – so deeply, it unnerved Assumpta – and ran the back of his free hand along the line of her face. He was about to speak. His mouth even began to form the outline of a word – a word that as it hung there, unheard and as yet, unsaid, held so much promise and anticipation.

But then, everything unravelled. A sound emanating from the hallway broke the charged silence. Peter jolted back, taking his outstretched hand with him, while Assumpta turned her eyes to the impossibly beautiful, statuesque blonde approaching the door way.

"Peter?" the intruder observed with incredulity. "What are you doing here?" Almost immediately the woman's eyes fell critically on Assumpta. "And who, may I ask, is _this_."

As if on cue, the last ember of the fire burnt out, its flame extinguished indefinitely.

* * *

_A/N Bit of a short chapter this time around but you know how much I love my cliffhangers! Thanks to everyone who is still keeping up with this story and leaving such amazing feedback. Hopefully I won't be so delayed with my next update!_


	11. Chapter 11

Angela Clifford-Webb could only watch as the scene unfolded before her. Her brother – the _Priest_ – wearing civvies and curled up on her Persian rug next to a woman dressed in even less.

She noticed the two empty glasses on the fireplace mantle, stained red with wine, and the fire itself, burnt to a cinder. She looked towards the guilty faces – each stained crimson also – and awaited the explanation that she was due.

"Angela…" Peter eventually snapped out of his startled reverie. "It's good to see you."

His sister allowed herself to be enveloped into an awkward hug. "You too, I guess."

"Where's Ron?"

"He had to work…" Angela kept her eyes on to the uncomfortable woman hiding behind her brother. "Have you been to see mum yet?"

"No, I was on my way there. I just thought we'd make a pit stop first."

It was the first time the siblings had made any reference to Assumpta. Taking this as her cue to introduce herself, the publican extended a nervous hand to the woman. "I'm Assumpta," she offered weakly. "Peter's … _friend_."

"Evidently," Angela returned distractedly, looking the Irishwoman up and down before returning her attention to her brother. "I'm sorry… look, you obviously weren't expecting me. To be honest, I assumed that I'd see you at the Royal Infirmary but when you weren't there –"

"Wait – why would I be at the hospital?" Peter interrupted before the realisation hit. "Mum…" he whispered, his voice full of dread.

Angela nodded gravely and said, "I thought they called you. I thought that's why you were here."

"What happened?"

"A stroke, they think. A heart attack too possibly…"

"How can they not know?"

Assumpta could only watch as Peter began to fall apart before her. Instinctively, she grabbed his hand supportively with her own, a gesture which he returned in kind.

"She was unconscious when they brought her in." Angela added regretfully, her eyes half focussed on the display of affection that was unfolding before her. "A neighbour found her."

Peter feared the answer to what he was going to ask next, but he needed to know all the same. "When?"

"Yesterday."

"I could have been there." Whether it was deliberate or not, Peter relinquished hold of the small pale hand in his grasp and moved his frame heavily towards the bay window.

"There's nothing you could have done. There's nothing anyone could have done. The doctors have her under close observation. Peter – she's in good hands."

Angela gave her brother a moment to consider this. As she did, her eyes fell once again on the small brunette lurking in the shadow of the fireplace, looking as if she wanted to be swept up through it. _Who was she?_

From her state of undress and the way she made moon-eyes at Peter, it was clear that her relation to the youngest Clifford was far from platonic. But it wasn't like Peter to defy his vocation so blatantly. So what had been happening here? She was determined to find out.

"You can drive back to the hospital with me, if you like?" Angela found herself offering. "I was just coming back to fetch some clothes. Grab a quick shower."

"The boiler's not working." Assumpta chimed in unexpectedly. "The heating too…"

"Did you put money in the meter?"

"Didn't know we had to," her brother admitted.

Angela rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Honestly, Peter. How many times have you been here already? There's a stack of pound coins in the kitchen sideboard. You can find the meter in there too."

As Peter moved to the adjoining room, Assumpta was hot on his heel, grateful for an excuse to leave the increasingly icy stares emanating from their visitor. "Peter… Peter."

The curate turned to face her, his brow creased in anguish. "I'm sorry our evening was cut short…"

"Will you stop worrying about me for a minute? What can I do?"

"You can be there."

His request was followed by a thick, heavy silence. _Did he really want to go public with her so soon? _

"Are you sure?" Assumpta placed a hand on Peter's forearm, which he covered warmly with his own.

"Perhaps not." he decided eventually. "Mum might get a bit of a shock if she wakes up and finds you and I…"

Peter allowed his sentence to trail – he had no words to finish it. It occurred to them both at that very moment that neither Peter nor Assumpta knew just what they had at this precise moment. Judging by this new development, Assumpta mused, they might just never know.

"I'll wait here," she offered, trying hard to keep her tone light "Leave the hire car and I can drive up if you need me."

The Priest smirked. "On English roads? I've seen your driving."

"Hey!" she slapped him playfully. "I taught you, didn't I? But seriously, I'm not going anywhere. I'm here for you."

Peter allowed his forehead to press against hers. "I know," he whispered gratefully.

An exaggerated cough from the corner of the room interrupted the reverie. Angela purposefully crossed the room to the meter and placed some coins in the slot. "Don't mind me, _Father _Clifford" she exclaimed sarcastically.

Assumpta's disdain for the elder Clifford grew by the minute. She attempted to catch her companion's eye with an exaggerated eye roll but Peter's gaze was fixed firmly on the floor. She could have been wrong but at that precise moment, the publican could have sworn that Peter looked ashamed at what his sister had witnessed.

In one motion, the Priest relinquished hold of her arm and moved mournfully over to the door. Without a single look back, he exited along with his sister, leaving the publican alone under the harsh light of the kitchen fluorescents.

* * *

_A/N Thanks to those who have read and reviewed! Fair warning, we're entering into some good ol' angsty territory here. I was never going to make the path to true love run smoothly! _

_Looking forward to hearing what you think... don't you just HATE Angela?_


	12. Chapter 12

Niamh Egan replaced the cordless receiver back into its nook on the wall. In two decades of friendship, Assumpta had not once lied to her. But now, clear as day, it appeared that the publican's excuse for a holiday had been nothing more than a complete fabrication.

The Irishwoman slumped heavily on the kitchen chair. She'd messed things up royally for Leo and Assumpta, that much was certain.

When Leo rang expecting to reach to publican, or at the very least leave a message for her, Niamh could so easily have made an excuse; told him that Assumpta was out running an errand. Instead, she made him privy to her friend's lie – shared her outrage at the deception with the only other person who had been affected.

He was sad, sure. Worried too by the sound of it. Had something happened to Assumpta en route to London? Should they call around the hospitals? But Niamh assured him that she knew. She knew all too well that Assumpta was okay and having the time of her life probably. And although she didn't share her suspicions with the voice on the other end of the line, Niamh had a good idea who she was currently with.

Peter.

_And Assumpta?_

It didn't bear thinking about. There had always been something between them, that much was certain. But would they really have run off together? Niamh gasped loudly as another question entered her head. _Were they even coming back?_

Right on cue, the baby monitor began to sound just as Padraig Kelley demanded a refill of his pint.

"In a minute," she shouted distractedly, knowing all too well that her mind would be otherwise occupied for the remainder of the day.

* * *

The journey back to Manchester was decidedly less exhilarating than the journey from it on the previous day. First and foremost, Peter had to endure the erratic driving of his sister who always allowed her emotions to influence the hand movements required for driving stick.

With a jolt, the car went from third to fourth and gradually picked up speed. Without signalling, Angela weaved through the traffic on the dual carriageway, muttering inaudibly under her breath. "I don't know what you're thinking…"

At first Peter assumed his sister's mumblings were directed at the other drivers in her lane, until she added. "I mean, honestly Peter. What is it that you think you were doing back there?"

"Excuse me?"

"You've been a Priest, for what… three years –" she guessed incorrectly. "How can you be falling off the wagon so spectacularly already?"

"It's five years and I haven't _fallen off the wagon_," he corrected with the after thought. "Yet…"

Angela narrowly avoided driving them into oncoming traffic as she completely ignored a stop sign. "And you were going to use my house as the venue for your little tryst no doubt. How _lovely. _I hope your little lady friend finds everything she needs back there. Goodness knows, she'll be needing some clothes if your old bricklaying shirt is all she has to wear."

Peter allowed his sister to rant, keeping his attention fixed firmly on the illuminated street ahead until his ears pricked up at her next statement.

"You and I made a promise, Peter. Or had you forgotten?"

The younger Clifford shook his head reticently, which led Angela to continue. "You and I were meant to lead better lives for this family – for Mum. I promised to secure us financially, you promised to secure us – "

"Spiritually" he remembered.

Angela allowed the silence to linger before she whispered again, "It would break Mum's heart if you were no longer a Priest."

"I know." Peter looked mournfully into his hands. "I know it would."

"Then you'll stop this?"

As conflicted as he was, Peter refused to show it. "Let's just get to the hospital, eh?"

Angela's lips tightened as the car picked up speed and the siblings spent the remainder of their journey in silence.

* * *

Peter walked past his mother's room several times before he realised that the frail apparition lying on the bed was Mary-Louise Clifford.

Usually the spitting image of Angela, Peter doubted that today their mother would even pass for human. Her hair, once a shock of bottled-platinum blonde was now ash-grey and sticking up in damp peaks around her crown.

Had he really been gone that long?

"Mum…" he whispered gently, his tone making his statement seem like a question.

Upon receiving no response, Peter placed the palm of his hand on the patient's brow. "Mum…"

"She can't hear you." Angela's clipped northern accent filled the room. "Or maybe she can. At any rate, she won't answer."

"How come?"

Peter watched as his sister began to unbutton the acid-green hospital nightgown that enveloped their mother's tiny frame.

"They sedated her so the doctors could run some tests. You know Ma, never one for being poked and prodded." Angela smirked knowingly. "Here, help me dress her, won't you."

As uncomfortable as he was by the prospect of dressing his elderly mother into one of Angela's Calvin Klein night-shirts, Peter stepped up to the challenge, trying desperately not to allow his mind to wander to the last and only time he'd ever helped a woman out of her clothes.

When they were finished, Angela sat silently on the foot of their mother's bed while Peter took the only chair in the room.

"Has anyone told Mark?" The question came out of Peter's mouth before he had a chance to prevent it.

Angela's face thundered. "I don't think Her Royal Majesty's has phones."

"Angie, c'mon. She's his mother too. He has a right to know."

"Then you tell him."

Peter considered the options. The eldest Clifford son was currently serving a twelve-year sentence for just about every non-violent, blue-collar crime a boy from Manchester could commit.

Drug trafficking with intent to sell coupled with attempted armed robbery and a large dose of benefit fraud had kept Mark Clifford behind bars for most of Peter's adult life. Apparently now, it would keep him there for the remainder of their mothers.

It had broken Mary's heart when the judge read out the decidedly lenient sentence. Despite the fact that her eldest son had got off fairly lightly for the crimes he'd committed, his incarceration had brought shame to the family. It had brought shame to her.

It was on that day that the remaining siblings made a vow to lead better lives than their brother had; to bring their mother out of the desperate fug she'd fallen into with the promise of making her proud. Angela did what came naturally to her with her strong will and head for numbers and made a small fortune on the stock market. Peter became a Priest.

Yes, Mark Clifford had a right to know that their mother had taken ill but try as he might, Peter couldn't bring himself to make the short trip over to the hospital payphone.

"I'll speak to him tomorrow," he vowed instead, trying hard to keep the emptiness he was feeling from his words.

The pair remained where they sat until the clock on the wall chimed 9pm. Visiting hours were over.

With a quick kiss on her forehead and a silent prayer on his lips, Peter headed out to his sister's hire car at speed.

"Oh don't wait for me, will you," his sister called after him. "I only have the keys."

When she caught up with him, the tears were freely flowing from Peter's eyes.

"This isn't good, is it?"

Angela considered the question for a moment, before answering a muted. "No."

"Do you think she'll even wake up?"

"Don't be daft, of course she will. It's only anaesthetic."

Peter didn't say anything else. Instead, he clamoured wordlessly into the car. His sister followed soon after, her mouth poised to speak as she did so. Realising the anguish still pained on her little brother's face, Angela quickly swallowed her words and attempted another tact.

"All this," she began, making a concerted effort to keep her voice gentle. "It's not just about Mum. Is it?"

By way of response, the curate shrugged and looked vacantly at his wrung hands.

"So, are you going to tell me who that woman is back at the house?"

With a laboured breath, Peter turned to face his sister and began. "Her name is Assumpta."

* * *

_A/N Three updates for three stories (nod to Bridget's and Aquitaine85's rather excellent fics!) - and it's not even the weekend! Thanks to my lovely band of reviewers, you truly make writing this a real pleasure. I'm never any good at writing other characters, but I hope Peter's backstory is at least somewhat plausible!_ _Something needs to drive a wedge (temporarily, at least!) between the priest and the publican and so I went with this... What do you think? _


	13. Chapter 13

When Peter had finished telling his story, all Angela could think to do was lean back in her seat and gasp.

"So other Priests, do they take this _break_ as well?"

"Apparently so," her brother replied. "Father Mac even took one, or so I'm led to believe."

Angela shook her head with incredulity. "That old stick in the mud you're always writing about? I didn't think he had a warm feeling from the waist down."

"Angie!" Peter begged. "Besides, that's not what this is about – for me, at least."

"Could've fooled me."

"Really," he snapped back defensively. "What you saw, back at the house, that wasn't what it looked like."

"It looked like an extremely good second date to me."

Peter rolled his eyes slowly in attempt to disguise his feeling that she was probably right.

"At any rate," he began. "Assumpta and I, well. We're not about that. It's not about that."

Angela scoffed, "For you maybe, little brother but I'm telling you, there's nothing of the Madonna in that woman." Just as Peter was going to snap back, his sister added with a smile, "The singer maybe..."

"You're wrong!"

"So you're telling me that this woman, this _publican_, hasn't once propositioned you in such a way."

Peter remembered the goading nature of Assumpta's kiss; her choice of attire this evening – hell, her choice of attire every evening they'd been alone – but he still refused to dignify Angela's crude line of questioning with a response.

"She's a red-blooded woman, Peter. You can't just lead her on like this."

"I'm not leading her anywhere," he snapped back tetchily.

With a shake of her head, his sister put her key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. "Fine," she relented eventually. "You'll just have to find out the hard way."

Peter was going to leave it there – everything told him to leave it there, but ever the inquisitive, he relented. "Find out what?"

Angela smiled weakly, as if she too had been on the receiving end of this predicament. "What it's like to break someone's heart."

"That's not going to happen," and Peter meant what he said. But a nagging voice inside of him reminded the curate that things seldom work out how we intend.

* * *

It was a little after midnight when the front door opened again. Although she was hours from sleep, Assumpta made a good show of it by extinguishing all of the lights in the house and closing shut her bedroom door.

She heard soft mumblings as the siblings crept up the stairs, their heated discussion relegated to hushed tones. Although the publican couldn't hear the entirety of the argument, she was able to pick up the odd word here and there – _finish, hurt_ and _Assumpta_ being the most prominent.

Assumpta crept over to door in attempt to make out their conversation better, just in time for her to hear the slam of their unwitting host's bedroom door.

Soon after, she heard footsteps approaching her own door. Assumpta expected a knock to follow but instead, a chorus of laboured breaths just sort of hung there, on the other side of the panelled wood.

_Peter…_ her head screamed. _Peter… just open the door. _

But still, the curate didn't move an inch.

_Peter…_

Assumpta's breath caught in her chest as she heard his hand reach for the door handle. As she glanced down, she saw that Peter had turned the door knob half way; just one push and the door would be wide open.

"Peter," she whispered involuntarily as her head pressed against the door.

At the sound of her voice, the Priest took his hand off the handle sharply and stepped away from her room.

_Damn…_

Assumpta tapped her head against the wood in frustration. Why did this have to be so difficult? This evening was meant to belong to them – they were meant to, at last, find a resolution to their years of yearning.

Immediately feeling selfish, Assumpta quickly banished her objections and vowed to be of more support in the morning.

For now though, all she had was this door and Peter, impotent and unwilling on the other side.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N Apologies for the ridiculous delay with updating. A bout of flu made it impossible to write anything bar some delirious ramblings (some of which may have found their way into this chapter!)  
_

_Also fair warning... there be M-rated content here. No warm and fuzzy feelings to go with it i'm afraid. This is angst, angst, angst (with a healthy dose of awkwardness) all the way!  
_

* * *

Breakfast at the Clifford Lake House was a decidedly surreal affair. The 'Angela' Assumpta had encountered the previous night seemed to have been replaced this morning by a Stepford-wife type, fixated on replenishing her guests' coffee cups as soon as they even threatened to become empty.

"More toast, Assumpta?" she offered cheerily – _too cheerily._

"I'm fine…"

Other than these practised niceties, the table was silent – the clang on cutlery on china being the only exception to this rule.

Peter was morose throughout. His red eyes and pallid complexion betrayed his assertion that he'd slept well. Throughout the meal, Assumpta tried to catch his eye by shooting a concerned expression his way every now and then. The Priest's focus remained steadfast on his plate however.

Something had happened, Assumpta was sure of it. Somehow that witch Angela had convinced Peter to put an end to his feelings for the publican. Last night's stairwell conversation had hinted at it, this morning's breakfast damn near confirmed it.

A sickness rose in Assumpta's throat – the sickness that comes from the anticipation that you're about to be dumped. A sickness that she hadn't felt since she was a teenager when she'd heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that Tommy O'Dell was now going steady with Candace from Year 4.

"Grapefruit or Orange?"

"Excuse me?" Snapped from her imaginings, the publican shot Peter's sister an accusatory look, only contributing to the awkwardness of the room.

"Juice?" Angela exclaimed in a sing-song voice. "Just juice."

Assumpta shook her head silently and directing her attention back to Peter's half eaten slice of toast, asked him. "How's your mother?"

"No news yet" Angela interrupted before realising the question wasn't directed at her. "Sorry."

"Are you going to the hospital today?" This time her question was addressed to them both.

Angela gave her brother time to respond but upon hearing nothing, answered. "Yes, well I will be at least." She studied Peter for a moment, and almost immediately declared, "In fact, I'll probably get going now. Leave you two to… talk."

That was it then, Assumpta told herself. He was going to do it this now.

As if confirming her suspicions, the elder Clifford told Peter, "I'll see you later" as she left the kitchen. To Assumpta, she said nothing.

The door closed behind her.

They were alone at last.

Never one to hide her feelings, Assumpta set about clearing away breakfast with the same enthusiasm as she had eating it. Sombrely, she weaved past Peter and the plates, deciding instead to devote her attention to scrubbing the stains off their coffee cups with meticulous care.

Peter was the first one to speak, although everything in his voice told her he was reluctant to do so.

"I guess we should talk."

Assumpta winced. _Here it comes…_ "What do we have to talk about?"

"Lots," he admitted. "Before last night."

"And today?"

Peter eventually locked eyes with the publican. "Just one thing, I guess."

Snatching her focus back to her coffee cups, Assumpta felt hot tears sting the back of her eyes. So this was how it was going to end? The Priest's one decisive action and it had to be this. Irritated by his silence, she snapped tetchily. "Will you just do it already, Peter."

"None of this is easy…"

"So you keep telling me," The publican rolled her eyes in an attempt to keep back her tears.

"I don't want to end things with you."

"But you're going to anyway…"

Peter stepped over to the counter in an attempt to offer comfort. His nerves getting the better of him, instead he leaned one hand against the lip of the Belfast sink. "I don't see any other way around it," he admitted finally.

If the room had erupted into flames, it would have been less traumatic for Assumpta. "Fine," she reasoned eventually. "Fine… that's your decision. This week was about you making your decision, so I'm glad you've finally been able to..."

The publican allowed her sentence to trail before adding, "Except, it wasn't really your decision, was it?"

His own tears threatening to spill over, Peter asked warily. "How do you…"

"Your sister," she interrupted. "Before she returned, could you ever have imagined ending this with me right now?"

Peter's glistening blue eyes darted to the window, as if seeking an answer. Trembling, he chewed on his bottom lip and answered truthfully, "No."

"Then what's changed?" Assumpta asked, wishing silently that his lower lip had been hers. "Does your sister have such a hold on you?"

"This has nothing to do with her," he snapped.

"Then who?" she erupted, unable to keep her trademark temper in check any longer. "Last night we were kissing against this very counter and today you couldn't have me far enough away."

The memory of their kiss stirred something inside of Peter. Irritated by his lack of fortitude, he clenched his fists. "My feelings for you haven't changed."

"Then what has?"

The question hung there, unanswered for what seemed like an eternity before his companion grew tired of waiting. "You know what? Don't worry. I already know."

"What?"

The publican was already half way out of the door as Peter asked it. "What?" he attempted again, more definitively.

Assumpta ascended the stairwell at speed, wiping away angry tears with the back of her hand as she did so. When he finally caught up with her on the landing, Peter placed a cagy hand on her forearm, which she rejected viciously.

"This is classic Peter Clifford, isn't it?" she began. "Vacillating from one notion to the other. Wanting something one minute and then canning it when you get too close."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Assumpta's quietened rage had finally spilt over. "Let's back up, shall we. Every time we've even touched fingertips, it's been on your terms. Your initiation. The car in Kilnashee woods; the pub, the couch – the kitchen, even. As soon as I make a move, you run away scared."

"I'm not scared."

"Oh really?" Her temper flaring, Assumpta searched her mind for any tenuous example. "Last night, as soon as I even tried to initiate anything stronger than hand holding, you'd recoil."

"You're wrong," Peter dismissed, making a move into the bedroom.

"Am I?" she asked, following in after him at speed.

"Yes."

"If I'm so wrong, why are you running away now?"

"I'm not run…" Peter cut his sentence short, realising his actions were to the contrary. "I'm not running."

The publican approached the bed where he stood. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice heavy. "Prove it."

As she spoke those final words, Assumpta enunciated every syllable, keeping her hot breath inches from his face.

Suddenly the mood in the room had shifted. Where there was once anger, there was now anticipation and the silent energy that comes with it.

If Peter was nervous, he didn't show it. "How do you…?" he asked casually.

Assumpta didn't miss a beat. "_Prove_ it." Her mouth edged closer to his, the inflection on the word 'prove' creating a swell in her lower lip.

The curate's expression was unreadable initially. His eyes wide with worry and his brow furrowed, Assumpta was sure that he was going to leave.

As if confirming her suspicions, Peter removed his hands from his sides and stowed them safely in his pocket. Wordlessly he turned to go, his lanky frame moving heavily towards the door.

Assumpta snatched her head away so she didn't have to watch him. Humiliated and rejected – twice in 12 hours! – was too much for the publican to take. As she made a silent oath never to open up so readily again, something unexpected happened.

The door clicked behind her.

The key turned in the lock.

She listened for footsteps but none came. As she turned, she saw that Peter was firmly rooted to the spot, looking at her with equal measures of desire and fear.

In the moments that followed, neither spoke. Instead, Assumpta crossed over to him and entwining her fingers through his, led Peter over to the bed.

As she did so, a chorus of words rang through the curate's head. _Are you really going to do this? This isn't a good idea._ But for his part, Peter shut out each and every one.

This wasn't the time for thinking.

"Undress me," Assumpta's unflinching command brought him back into reality.

Without really processing what she said – and its implications – Peter moved a steady hand towards the strap of her dress. Hooking his thumb underneath it, he slid it down her bare shoulder, eliciting a closed-eye sigh from his companion.

This wasn't a good idea – it really wasn't, but Peter was transfixed. Keeping his eyes on hers the entire time, he removed the other strap and trailed his fingers along the buttons along the front of the red floral dress. As he moved to undo them, the curate was suddenly mystified at where to begin.

"They're just for show," Assumpta explained with a smile. "Here…"

The publican raised her left arm over her head and guided his hand to the zip on the side of the dress. Once he had located the clasp, Peter dragged the zipper slowly down the curve of her waist. Assumpta clenched down on her lower lip as his warm hand found the skin underneath.

After this, the clothes appeared to peel off by their own accord. The dress was the first to leave, cascading into a pool around the publican's feet. Next the shoes and hold-ups, each removed quickly and carefully and placed neatly beside the ottoman.

When just two items of clothing remained, Peter got to his feet and finally allowed his eyes to linger on the silhouette of her near-naked form.

"There," he mumbled breathlessly. "Proven."

Gesturing to the white cotton underwear protecting her modesty, Assumpta whispered. "Not quite."

Peter flashed a look of warning. Did she really want him to continue? Did he?

Knowing all to well that this final act would be their undoing, the curate moved his fingers to the clasp of her strapless bra, peering over her shoulder as he worked.

If the buttons on her dress flummoxed him, this new challenge was damn near impossible. His frustration rising along with his embarrassment, Peter opted instead to drag the elasticated material up, over her head.

Assumpta's urge to laugh was soon diminished by the impossible heat of Peter's hand against her breast. She watched as he studied her, appreciating her form as if it were the first time he'd seen anything like it.

"Why don't you want me, Peter" she heard herself ask him.

"I do," he assured, keeping his eyes and his hands firmly on her. "I want you so much."

She leaned in close to him and soon felt that this was definitely the case. Catching his gaze, she took a deep breath and murmured quietly, "Prove it."

All it took was a split second of hesitation before Peter's mouth was against Assumpta's again, kissing her with a new kind of veracity that neither of them expected.

Clumsily, they fell against the bed as the publican made a better of job of undressing Peter than he had her. In seconds, his t-shirt, jeans and boxers had joined her pile of clothing on the floor leaving them both naked, save for the bed sheet Assumpta had hastily draped around them both. "For warmth," she explained as Peter eyed the cover suspiciously.

For a moment, the pair remained perfectly still with their limbs and torsos entwined. Peter ran his thumb along her cheek to catch an errant tear that had somehow escaped. Moved by its presence, the Priest gently kissed the place where it had been before moving his mouth to reclaim hers once again.

In doing so, the pair reached their moment of no return – a consequence there'd be no turning away from. As he entered her, a fog of thoughts clouded Peter's brain as this new nirvana coursed through him. Almost immediately he wondered why he'd denied himself this for so long. It was almost innocent in its simplicity.

How could something so right be so wrong?

"Stay with me," Assumpta pleaded as her lover's distractions led him to relax his pace to a painstaking slow.

Frustrated by his internal monologue, Peter bit down on his lower lip in an attempt to regain better control of his faculties. "Sorry" he mumbled, wishing immediately that he hadn't.

Assumpta planted light kisses on his temple as once again, his thrusts began to pick up pace. As inexperienced as he was eager, Peter bit down on his lip to keep his release from surfacing too soon.

He envisioned the most mundane things he could fathom: a pencil, a pencil sharper, a ruler, a protractor… but his resolve was wearing fast.

"Assumpta – I…" he begged but oblivious to his pleas, the woman merely tightened her hold of his hips. "I'm going to –" he warned but it was already too late. Quickly and completely, Peter emptied himself into her, his eyes brimming with tears as he did so.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled breathlessly into her hair. "I'm sorry. I –"

"Shhh…"

"No, I didn't mean to… I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Assumpta searched his eyes honestly but he averted his in shame. "Peter, look at me won't you?"

"I wanted this to be perfect. I wanted to make you…"

"You can. You will –"

Pulling away, Peter shook his head regretfully. "You deserve so much better than me."

Assumpta felt her eyes sting with tears as Peter turned to face the wall. "_Then how come it's you who I love_?"

If she'd actually spoken the words out loud, the Priest didn't offer any response. Realising that her proclamation was merely a thought, etched on her lips, Assumpta turned to face Peter's back. Gingerly, she wrapped her arm around his waist, a gesture that he accepted half-heartedly.

If before she'd guessed it, now she knew it. It wasn't over. How could it be?

It had never even begun.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N Thanks to all of the lovely peeps still sticking with this story - and bigger thanks to those leaving a review. You're all wonderful! New Girl - Peter's brother will make an appearance at some point, but perhaps not in the way you might think! _

_A short chapter for you all today... hopefully not frustratingly so though!_

* * *

Hailstones spat against the van's windscreen on the approach to Fitzgerald's. The weather hadn't let up, even for a moment, since Assumpta had left the lake-house in Windermere. Everything around her had taken on the faintest hint of mildew. She'd almost grown accustomed to the smell.

Through the rain, Assumpta could make out the bright yellow façade of home. _At least that had weathered the storm_, she contended. The publican tried to imagine that she too were made from bricks and mortar. She practised her neutral expression in the rear-view mirror. Would the others know? Could any of the provincial minds of Ballykissangel identify the heartbreak that threatened to surface?

Peter didn't drive her to the airport, despite his earlier protestations. As they waited for the taxi on the front steps neither spoke a word. What was left to say? Assumpta imagined that her companion was still reeling with embarrassment from their hurried and perhaps, ill-conceived lovemaking.

The publican winced as she remembered the sombre way they'd dressed, each devastatingly mindful of the other; careful not to catch a glimpse of the other's naked flesh.

It had not been the union they'd hoped for. When Assumpta had imagined their first time, she'd anticipated laughter and fanfare, or at the very least, a quickly succeeding second and third time. Instead of basking in afterglow, they basked in discomfort, neither wanting to be the first or the last to speak.

Eventually, Peter had been the one to break the silence. "I hate this…"

Assumpta smiled wryly, "Don't worry, the taxi will be here soon enough."

"That's not what I – look, do you have to go now? Don't you want to talk?"

The publican stared levelly at the distance. "What more is there to say?"

"I don't like leaving it like this." Peter watched as her shoulders hunched almost as easily as they sank. A universal gesture of practised nonchalance.

"You're not the one leaving," she sighed eventually.

Peter placed a weary hand against his furrowed brow. "I wish I could make you understand."

"I wish you could too." Assumpta eventually managed as the taxi pulled up outside.

As she had moved to climb into it, Peter had pulled her towards him. Too awkward to be an embrace yet too intimate for a hug, the pair had remained sidled up against one another until the rain had soaked them to the skin.

And that's how they left it. Not another word exchanged between them, not even another glance.

Assumpta shuddered at the memory. No, she would not allow her emotions to get the better of her again. Now was the time for composure. She glanced at her watch before deciding that it was late enough for her to sneak upstairs undetected.

She'd almost made it half way up when a booming voice caught her mid-step. "And where have you been hiding then?"

_Niamh_. Of course, Niamh would still be here. Last orders may have been called over an hour ago but the tidying up would last long into the night.

The publican turned to face her friend, her practised façade carefully formed on her face but she needn't have bothered. After a lifetime of shared experiences, Niamh could read Assumpta like a book. "What's wrong?"

At this, Assumpta felt her face crumple. "Oh Niamh," she whimpered. "I've made such a huge mistake."

The previous emotions each woman had felt had all but diminished as Assumpta made her final declaration. The publican's resolve had all but waned; her friend's suspicion was quietened, at least for now.

This wasn't the time for questions, Niamh quickly realised. Whatever interest she had for the publican's whereabouts over the past three days, her curiosity would have to wait.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N It's back... Bet you thought this was going to be another frustratingly unfinished Ballk fic? Oh yea of little faith. Actually, up until this morning i'm afraid it might have destined to be this. I think three stories in a little over a year has taken its toll on me. These days it's almost impossible to write! _

_As difficult as it may be, I'm determined to finish this. I just hope that our little community of ardent fans is still here? _

_Anyway, I hope this latest chapter finds its audience. Just a recap - Assumpta has left Peter to look after his ailing mother in Manchester. Will he return? Read on... and review!_

* * *

The persistent chime of the heart monitor gave Peter cause to hope. Whether the heart rate was strong or weak, its ting was unwavering; a comfort that the Priest dared not believe.

It had been a difficult few days, least of because of his mother's condition, which the doctor's maintained was steadily improving

Peter looked at the clock. He'd relieved Angela from her bedside vigil almost two hours ago. Still reeling from a cataclysm of unfamiliar emotions – shame, humiliation and sadness, intermingled with a strange sort of acceptance – the curate had used the time to wallow unashamedly in his own emotions.

Assumpta had left. She'd actually left. He hadn't asked her to but, as loath as he was to admit it, her absence did simplify things somewhat.

For starters, his sister had been far easier to bear. Rather than volunteer any more snide observations during their infrequent conversations, she recognised the dark cloud cast across Peter's face and held her tongue.

There was his embarrassment too. After all of their patience, their years of wanting, _this _was the first time Peter and Assumpta were awarded? One hundred and eighty seconds of unparalleled ecstasy – and then nothing.

If he ever needed proof that God had a sense of humour, this would be it.

"Really?" Speaking to no one in particular, Peter cast his eyes to the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh. His gaze fell on his mother, then onto his hands before finally settling on the payphone across the hall.

It occurred to him that he had many calls to return today. First, to his brother, who'd left an anguished voicemail begging his younger sibling to vouch for him so he could visit their mother.

Next, he'd have to call Father MacAnally to inform him of this new development. His mother was sick but getting stronger by the day. If she survived this she would need weeks, if not months of around the clock care. Angela was needed in Asia and the rest of the family was either incarcerated in prison or in the ground. There was no other feasible option, really.

The younger Clifford smirked darkly. This week had been about him making a decision and here he was, his decision already made for him: he would have to leave Ireland after all.

He would have to leave Assumpta.

His brow winced from the pain in his chest. Peter imagined that this must be where the concept of the proverbial heart originated. If the organ in his chest really had no connection to his emotions, why did it ache so much when he thought of her?

The wall clock silently signalled that another hour had passed. The day was fast escaping; he'd have to get moving if he wanted to make those calls today. With a strangled sigh, the curate climbed from his uncomfortable hospital recliner and walked solemnly into the hall.

* * *

The midseason rush had been its own comfort to Assumpta Fitzgerald, not in the least because of the distraction it provided. No, the extra income was welcome too, the publican accepted. Bank notes in the till had been a novelty of late and as her accountant kept reminding her, the tax man still needed to be paid.

Assumpta flicked through the empty reservations diary. Wednesday had melted into Thursday and Friday seemed to have been skipped entirely; how could it already be the weekend?

"Service," Niamh barked from the kitchen, alerting the publican to the task at hand.

"We're not a Michelin-starred restaurant, you know. You can just say the sandwiches are ready."

"Now where's the fun in that?" Niamh smiled warmly. As the only confident to the landlady's unique predicament, the young Irishwoman had been decidedly kind to her friend over the past few days.

Word from Peter had so far proved elusive. As far as anyone knew, the curate was due to return home in time for mass tomorrow. Today marked the final day of his holiday.

_Hmm._ Assumpta smirked at her choice of words. Despite all of his good intentions, she was certain that this week had been anything _but _a holiday for the Priest. Her mind turned to his poor mother – surely no news was better than the alternative?

Heavy steps through the kitchen door snapped the publican from her reverie. "Wishing it was someone else?" Brendan remarked knowingly at her expectant face.

"Brendan," she snipped impatiently. "What are you doing back here?"

"I believe that's my bacon sandwich that's going off there."

Assumpta examined the wilting dish in her hand. "Sorry," she mumbled. _Get it together woman._ "Here you are…"

"If I wanted self-service Assumpta, I'd have gone to the drive-through in Cilldargan."

"Just eat your lunch," she retorted.

"That's what keeps us coming back," the teacher mumbled between mouthfuls. "That magnanimous Fitzgerald charm."

"It keeps us all returning."

A voice from the open door brought the pub to a standstill. The crowd, once dense with tourists posing for photos and charging pints of Stout seemed to dissipate before Assumpta's eyes.

_Peter. _

He was back.


	17. Chapter 17

"Peter! We thought you'd disappeared forever."

It was almost as if the gravely Irish baritone to the left of Assumpta had spoken her thoughts.

"Have a drink on me, why don't you." Padraig continued, gesturing for the landlady's attention but her gaze was fixed firmly on the eyes that were avoiding hers.

"Don't mind if I do." Peter added, sheepishly taking a seat beside the parishioners. "Just a coke, thanks Assumpta."

_Assumpta_. Just the way he pronounced her name gave her gooseflesh along her arms. As the publican moved to retrieve the glass bottle from the fridge, two thoughts occurred to her. One: Peter looked decidedly uncomfortable about being home. Two: He still made every fibre of her body tingle by his very presence.

_Damn._ This day was not going to end well for her.

She placed the drink beside Peter and immediately stowed her hand back in her underarm for safety. If the Priest was aware of her presence, he was careful not to show it. His attention was fixed firmly on the beads of condensation forming on his glass.

"Good holiday then, Father?"

Snapped from his reverie, the Priest offered a nod followed by a noncommittal smile. Goaded by Padraig's stare, he continued, "Sure, it was okay thanks."

Feeling the publican's prying eyes bore into the back of his head, Peter eventually added, "My mother was taken ill a few days into the week but she's on the mend now."

"Really?" The urgency in her voice surprised even Assumpta.

"The hospital transferred her to Occupational Therapy."

Gingerly, Peter caught the publican's softened gaze with his own and broke into an uneasy smile. She returned it swiftly, but at a loss with what to do next, dropped her gaze to the glistening coke bottle between them.

"Occupational Therapy?" Brendan's remark was a welcome respite. "Must've been serious then?"

The moment over, Peter diverted his attention back to crowd and the questions at hand.

* * *

Although she fully expected Peter to be among the first of the locals to leave when last orders were called, it came as an unwelcome blow to the publican when he left without so much as a goodbye.

Did she mean so little to him?

Eventually, and with a minimum of fuss, the remainder of the stragglers followed suit and at a quarter past midnight, Assumpta was finally alone – in a clean pub – and eventually able to salvage some of the evening to call her own.

Peter had returned. He had actually come back – but to what end, how was she to know? A decision had been reached, that much was certain. The Priest seemed less nervous this evening – more sure of himself and his actions. In fact, their whole dynamic had changed. Years of careful exchanges had now been replaced by a new confidence that comes only when two people had seen each other naked.

Which of course they had.

Assumpta winced at the recollection. She sensed that Peter was still embarrassed by the fleeting nature of their union but there was no assuring him without flouting her years of sexual experience. How could she convince him that first times rarely ever went according to plan? That ultimately it didn't matter?

_Wine._ She needed wine. It was tempting to fill the yard of ale glass that hung above the optics, so frayed were her nerves, but instead Assumpta settled for a very large glass of Chablis from the fridge.

Settling down in front of the fire, Assumpta took a sip and then another, trying not to focus on the last time she and Peter had ended up on this couch. Barely a week ago but as far as she was concerned, it could have been a lifetime.

Hastily, she downed the remaining contents of her glass and poured herself another. As she did so, Assumpta felt the hairs on the back of her neck immediately stand on end. The door behind her had swung open. Someone had come in.

Without even turning, she knew who it was.

"Rather late for a house call, Father Clifford." she muttered into her glass. "Father MacAnally would not be pleased."

With a smile, Peter took a seat next to her on the couch. "Well, that's really not his concern, is it?"

Confused Assumpta turned to face her companion, noticing immediately the absence of any of the usual trepidation he wore on his face. Peter smiled knowingly, as if he'd waited years to tell her what came next.

"I don't work for Father MacAnally anymore."

* * *

_A/N So... I am officially one of the worst updaters in this forum's history, I know BUT I hope that you're all still bearing with me. This story does have a resolution, i'm just not entirely sure how to get there yet. _

_Thanks to all of my lovely reviewers and a warm welcome to the excellent bunch of new Ballykissangel FF writers out there. I'm enjoying your stories immensely._

_The next chapter to this story is almost complete so keep your eyes peeled for another update._


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N Oh you lot. You're just lovely, do you know that? Thanks for all of the awesome words of encouragement. As always, they spur me on when my writer's block steers me otherwise. _

_Bit of a naughty M-rated chapter for you now to make up for my tardiness. To recap, Peter has just told Assumpta that he doesn't work for Father Mac anymore. But she knows, as well as we do, it was never going to be __that__ easy..._

* * *

"So who'd you work for then?"

It wasn't the response that Peter had been hoping for. Assumpta's stare didn't waver as she pronounced her words, unsettling and exciting the Priest in equal measure.

"What do you mean?" he uttered eventually, finally finding the courage to speak.

"Well" Assumpta began, "if you're not answering to Father Mac, then to whom do you answer?" With a wink, she offered conspiratorially, "or do you have a direct line to Him upstairs?"

Flummoxed by her question and even more perturbed by her manner, her companion stuttered, "Yes," followed by "No." Eventually he reasoned, "Look, I wanted to be honest with you. Let you know my plans."

"Oh, that's grand isn't it? A moment of truth amongst all of these lies."

"I've never lied to you."

"You've never been honest."

Peter pushed himself up from the couch and walked behind the bar. Pouring himself a large whisky, he uttered quietly, "I've tried… I'm trying."

Fighting an eye roll, the publican joined him at the other side of the bar. "I'm listening."

"What I told you about mum," he began, earnestly. "What I told you about her getting better, it's all true. But she'll never be the same."

"Oh, no?"

"She needs live-in support. She can't look after herself anymore – she barely could before. " Peter picked his next words carefully. "She needs her family."

"And that _family _would be you." Assumpta cursed herself for her uncaring words, but her blood was boiling inside.

"I'm all she's got."

"Your sister?"

"On her way to the airport as we speak." Peter searched his mind for some words of consolation – for a way to make everything okay. "Look, this doesn't have to be _it,_ you know."

"Oh no?"

"We could keep in touch."

"Keep in touch?" Assumpta pronounced each word skeptically.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You never even had me!" The publican's roar seemed to shake even the glassware of the pub. Attempting to regain her composure, she added in a whisper, "If I was ever yours to lose, you lost me when I left England. When you decided this wasn't worth the effort."

"I never said that," he replied tetchily. "That's not what happened."

Neither spoke for a while, each immersed in the hue of their own drinks. Assumpta collected their glasses, signalling that their evening had come to an end. She moved to speak but immediately thought better of it. After a beat, she finally settled on her words.

"It didn't work when there was just a wall between us. What chance do we have when it's an ocean?"

Assumpta didn't linger downstairs long enough for a response – she didn't expect one. Following her pronouncement, the landlady ascended the stairwell, switching off every light on her way.

For a while, Peter remained alone in the darkness, quietly wondering when things had become so complicated. He had to put his mother's well being first, that much was certain. As much as it pained him to admit it, the Clifford matriarch would not welcome his career change immediately, if at all.

Peter remembered the pride in his mother's face when he took his first Mass – her amusement at his first christening. Peter's vocation was especially important when his father passed away. His mother relied on her younger son, much more than she ever had before. It was no secret; Mark was always the favourite. She tolerated Angela and humoured Peter but her eldest child was and would be forever, the apple of her eye.

However, Peter's vocation – his position as the only true practicing Catholic among the siblings – gave Mary-Lou a sense of pride, something that was all but lost following Mark's incarceration.

_This would kill her._ A voice inside of Peter gave him pause. _It would break Mum's heart if you were no longer a Priest._

Angela was right – and so was Assumpta. He had to remain a Priest. He had to go through with his plans and return to his original post at St Andrew's in Manchester.

_He had to_. At least for the time being. At least until his mother improved. And while he was a Priest, he couldn't keep Assumpta in his life. It wasn't fair – on either of them.

Father MacAnally had been told of his intentions, now all he had to do was give his final Mass at St Joseph's in the morning and leave. No – that was callous. He'd take the Mass, have a drink with the parishioners, say a proper goodbye and then leave. Either way he was gone.

Peter's eyes lingered on the stairs. His legs, firmly rooted to floor, knocked nervously against the curved lip of the bar.

_Leave. Leave now_… he willed them, but still his focus on the darkened steps didn't waver.

"It's time to go." A low whisper left his lips. "You need to leave…"

It was the right thing to do – it was the only thing to do – but every fibre of his being fought against it. Peter felt a hot tear roll slowly along his cheek.

_Get it together… _

With effort the Priest rose up from his stool and headed quickly to the door. However, just as he reached for the handle, the hairs pricked up on the nape of his neck. His arms goose-fleshed.

Someone was there.

"You're still here?" _Assumpta._

Peter turned immediately. Anguished and tear-strewn, her face was still as lovely as ever. "I was about to –"

"Do you think… that maybe" Assumpta interrupted, letting go of the breath that she didn't know she'd been holding.

"What?"

The publican pursed her lips, momentarily at a loss at what to say next. "It's your final day…" she added eventually, her eyes downcast.

Peter crept forward hopefully, his heart beating wildly through his chest. "Final day?"

"…of your holiday." Assumpta's gaze finally met his, begging for his comprehension, _willing_ him to understand.

Peter's expression went blank. Surely she wasn't asking? Surely she didn't want…

"I know that it wouldn't mean anything. I understand that you have to go…" her voice threatened to break into hysterics. Did she really have to spell it out?

She needn't have worried, for the next thing Assumpta felt was Peter's mouth on hers, his hands making fistfuls against the cotton of her dress.

He pulled away just once to utter breathlessly into her hair, "You could never mean nothing to me. You're _everything_…" His voice trailed, his mind racing elsewhere as she slid her cool hands along the small of his back.

Suddenly they were at the foot of the stairs and then they were against them, exploring one another's form with each extremity, every sense that hadn't completely taken leave yet.

"I love…" Assumpta began to form the words – those very dangerous words that every action, every movement of hers screamed, but her traitorous mouth was quickly silenced by Peter shushing against her lips.

"Don't," he begged, his eyes wide with warning. "Please…"

She understood immediately, of course she understood. There was no room for melancholy in this moment. You don't want to mix sadness and regret with an ecstasy as pure as this.

Assumpta bit her lower lip to keep the words from tumbling out and with fresh tears felt Peter push against her entrance once more.

His access was easy – it always would be. It was as if every moment, every argument, _every touch,_ had led up to this very point. She fit him like a glove. Perfectly and completely, surrounding him with an irrepressible heat that ignited a passion that the Priest had never known.

It was almost too much – and it very nearly was – as Peter tried to commit every minutia to memory; her smell; the exact curve of her breast; the sounds she made as he entered and re-entered, gradually gaining and maintaining at the pace that she dictated.

But then suddenly something shifted. Her groans became more rasping as her hold on him began to tighten. Peter grinded to a halt, his fear supplanting his need for absolution.

"Assumpta…" he warned as he felt her rock impatiently beneath him. "Assumpta!" he begged again, feeling something at the pit of his stomach unfurl.

"Let go," she implored, pushing him even deeper inside her. "It's time to let go."

Suddenly everything fell into place. The world ravelled and unravelled in equal symmetry. A whimper that Peter didn't know he'd been holding escaped as he finally gave in to his release.

"I love…" he seemed to cry out, immediately superseded by Assumpta's wry warning "Careful" as her own orgasmic sighs mingled blissfully with the ether.

"But I do." Peter uttered eventually, resting his brow on the crook of her neck. "I can't remember how not to."

Assumpta smiled, although she felt no mirth. This was never going to be easy, she admitted inwardly. However in that moment, wrapped tightly by Peter's arms, it all suddenly felt worth it. The pain that existed and the torture still to come.

It was all okay because tonight they had each other... and five and a half precious hours left of their holiday.


	19. Chapter 19

The weeks passed like months. Each day within them, long and relentless, like swimming underwater. Peter's departure had shaken the village for all of a week and a half. By the following Thursday, the gossip had quietened, the parishioners occupied instead by the impending arrival of the new Parish curate.

"Think they'll send us another Englishman?"

"If they do, he'll not be as good as Father Peter."

Assumpta flinched at Brendan's pronouncement of his name. It was as if someone had doused her in ice water. Her ears pricked in anticipation of hearing his name again, but to no avail. The conversation had moved on. Everyone had moved on. Everyone except her.

Their goodbye had been among the most painful moments of the publican's life – akin to the loss of both of her parents, she was ashamed to admit. They'd made love repeatedly through out the night – honing their art to a perfection. Learning and discovering what made eachother's toes curl in delight, a skill that seemed all but futile now.

When she awoke, Peter was already up and dressed, his oversized frame perched awkwardly on the small occasional chair that had only ever had clothes placed on it.

His face was a picture. Elation coupled with abject sadness – the kind that the publican knew only all too well. They didn't speak; they didn't have to. Wordlessly, Peter wandered over to the bed, squeezed her shoulder once and kissed her quickly on the forehead and then he was gone. Gone. Out of her life forever.

The memory of it was enough to burn fresh tears into the back of Assumpta's eyes. _Stop it,_ she chided to her masochistic brain. _You need to stop thinking about him._

But it wasn't easy. Peter was _everywhere_. From the unwashed whisky glass that lingered surreptitiously by the sink to the relentless ache in her own heart, Peter's presence was like a guest who refused to leave.

Michael Ryan's entrance to the pub was a welcome distraction from her musings.

"Hey doc, anymore war wounds?" she asked jovially, remembering to keep her voice light.

Michael face was grave as he pronounced, "I got a call from Peter."

"Oh yeah?" she answered warily. The look on the doctor's face told her everything that she needed to know. "Oh no."

"I'm afraid so. His Mum died yesterday."

Assumpta's heart fell into her stomach. Peter's mother had died? She was meant to be getting better.

"Poor thing." Niamh's well-meaning lament snatched her back to the here and now.

"We should send him some flowers or something."

"How's he taking it?" Assumpta immediately interjected, trying desperately to keep her voice neutral.

"Well, he's keeping busy with odds and ends." Michael approached the bar cautiously, unsure if he should deliver the message that he'd promised he would. In a low voice he offered, "I told him you'd call, Assumpta." Discreetly he placed a small rectangle of paper on the bar in front of her. "Here's his number."

She glanced down at the torn notepaper without picking it up, recognizing the number immediately. "Thanks." Her voice betrayed the trepidation that she felt.

For a while, the piece of paper remained there, curled awkwardly next to the empty tankards and overflowing ashtrays. Through a chorus of well-meaning toasts to the former Priest's mother – as well as all mothers in general – and until last orders were called, the publican did nothing with the number, perhaps hoping that a gust of wind would take it away.

Eventually the torn parchment did disappear, mistakenly tidied away by Niamh as she helped clear the remnants of the pub but it didn't matter. Assumpta already knew the area code that it carried – she already knew the place.

0-1-5-3-9-4

Windermere. Peter was at the Lake house.

* * *

It was suspiciously easy to leave Ballykissangel mere weeks after she'd already been away.

All it took was a lie, a bus, a plane and a rental car for Assumpta to arrive, 24 hours later, at the steps of the house that she and Peter had once shared as if it were their own.

It was decidedly less easy to leave the car. What if the entire Clifford family were staying at the house? What if it was only Angela? Mourning or no mourning, the publican didn't relish another strained encounter with the 'Ice Queen'.

On the approach, Assumpta saw just one car parked in the driveway – a rental from the same budget airport company that supplied her own. A good sign? Peter's sister only used Hertz. There was a solitary light on through the bay window downstairs.

_He's here,_ she told herself. _He needs you._

Assumpta winced, realising that she knew neither statement to be true. Peter had passed on his number to her, sure, but that didn't mean that he expected anything more than a conversation with the publican. But why, she had asked herself, if all he wanted was to hear the sound of her voice did he call Michael and not Fitzgerald's?

No, this was a silent request – an outreach, of sorts. A message in a bottle. He'd wanted Assumpta to know exactly where he was. He'd wanted her to come. Now she had, what more was there to do?

The rain had been falling hard on the journey up and as she opened the car door, a wave of saline-mingled moisture infused her senses. Assumpta ascended the steps up to the house but immediately saw that he was already there, waiting for her against the jamb of the open door.

"You came?" Peter uttered incredulously, as if not entirely believing it. "It's actually you."

"Of course I did," she returned his smile easily, feeling the lightness of her heart carry her effortless up the steps. "Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

At this final pronouncement, Assumpta found herself pulled towards the man who occupied so much of her heart. Peter's arms snaked around her shoulders, her waist, as she buried her head deep into the crook of his neck, needing him just as much as he currently needed her.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered into the curate's ear. "What can I do?"

Peter held his arms firmly around her and with a squeeze uttered, "You're already doing it."

She smiled sadly and held onto him even tighter and for even longer than either of them intended.

* * *

_A/N We're winding down now, I think. Good job as you're probably sick of me by now! :) Just one more chapter before our happily ever after. Thanks to everyone who has been following this story and to my lovely reviewers - you're all so impossibly kind and motivational. Love to hear what you think about this, rather difficult-to-write chapter. :)_


	20. Chapter 20

In the days that followed, Peter and Assumpta did as little as they could manage. Meals were taken in the comfort of their shared bed; clothes were entirely optional. Conversations varied from the deep and forlorn to the entirely superficial via long stretches of not speaking at all.

It was meant to be a period of mourning – and in many ways it was – but when all Peter could see was the alabaster of Assumpta's skin against his own, when all he could feel was her warmth, it was easy to forget.

On day three, things began to change. Eating breakfast on the deck, Peter and Assumpta shared another of their easy silences. Fresh pastries, coffee and yesterday's unread Sunday supplements were the order of the day and who were they to argue?

Tearing into her second cinnamon bun, Assumpta remarked lazily, "So, what now?"

She'd meant today. She'd meant to say 'what are we going to do today?' but the look of sheer panic on Peter's face gave her pause.

"What… do we really need to decide?" he began hastily. "What do you mean, 'what now'?"

"What are we going to do today?" she eventually clarified. "But I'm glad that you're so comfortable with the long-term ramifications of that question."

"Meaning?"

Assumpta felt a flush of anger coarse through her. "I ask 'What now?' and you immediately go on the defensive?"

"I didn't… that's now what I –"

"I thought we were on the same page with regards to that. I thought we'd agreed…"

"We haven't agreed any…" Peter allowed his sentence to trail but it was already too late. In one seamless movement, Assumpta had swung her legs off his lap and had marched into the kitchen. "Assumpta… Assumpta!"

"I can't believe we're having this conversation again! After everything that's happened…"

"There's no conversation. Can't we just go back to how things were before?"

"Before when?" Assumpta spat. "Before 5 minutes ago or before last month?"

"You know what I mean."

"Do I? Do I really? I thought we were on the same page with where we were headed but now –"

At this, Peter felt his own temper rising. "We are on the same page," he pronounced calmly. "It's just… right now isn't the time for us to make any rash decisions."

"Rash decisions?" As the reality of her situation began to sink in, Assumpta backed wearily against the sideboard. "Oh god, you haven't decided whether to leave yet, have you?"

Peter's face dropped. It was true. She was right. As loathe as he was to admit it, in his heart he still felt like a Priest. "I'm 99% certain…"

"So that's alright then? You're almost decided to leave the Church, so that's enough of an excuse to screw me…."

"Assumpta!"

"Well it's true, isn't it?"

Peter's voice began to rise. "You think my mother was the only obstacle between us? You think that now she's dead I can forget that I'm a Priest."

"I think that you forgot that a long time ago."

"Cheap shot," he snapped angrily.

"Well it's true."

Neither spoke for a moment, each lost in the ramifications of their seemingly hopeless situation.

"None of this is easy." Peter reasoned eventually.

"I never assumed that it was."

"Before she died," the curate began, in earnest. "Before she was gone I wanted to remain a Priest to make her happy. Make her proud. Now, I…"

"You think you owe it to her memory." Assumpta spoke in a calm voice although she felt anything but calm.

"It just seems sort of tacky, doesn't it? To admit that the one hurdle keeping you from being who you really wanted to be was your mother, and now that she's out of the way – "

Peter couldn't finish his sentence – he didn't have to. His face creased up in a kind of pained anguish, the kind that Assumpta recognised from her own features in the weeks that followed her own mother's death.

"It's all she ever wanted for me."

"Now, I know that's not true." Assumpta relaxed her grasp of the sideboard and reached out to touch the Priest.

"Do you? How?"

The publican was immediately dumbfounded. She didn't know. How could she? "She's your mother…" she acknowledged, eventually.

Peter looked down at his feet, watching as they kicked imaginary snow on the ground. After a moment, he replied in a voice so low that it was barely there. "Was my mother."

"What?"

"She was my mother," he clarified. "Now – I don't know…"

Peter wasn't offered the opportunity to follow that thought to its depressing conclusion. As soon as he paused for breath, Assumpta weaved her way over to him and simply held him close without speaking, without even breathing too heavily.

"I just wish I could have told her, you know? As much as I was dreading it, I wish that she would have known about you. About how I felt about you."

Assumpta buried her head into Peter's shirt as she conceded, "I know."

"She asked me point blank just before her death. She asked if I was happy. I had every opportunity to tell her the truth and I didn't." A perfectly straight, horizontal line formed on Peter's mouth. "And now I can't."

Assumpta remembered her own mother and her ability to smell a rat at fifty feet – an uncanny ability that plagued the teenage Assumpta right up until her eighteenth year. "She'll have known, Peter. She will."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mothers always do."

At first, Peter seemed to accept her insight – to whole-heartedly endorse it, even. With a solitary tilt of the head, he permitted his mouth to be found and allowed himself to be kissed chastely, first on the lips and then cheek.

"I wish she could have known you."

Assumpta considered his statement for a moment and to her surprise, honestly wished she could have met the elder Clifford also. The odds of the two getting along were slim at best. She was by all reports the carbon copy of Angela in looks as well as temperament, as well as being a steadfast Catholic. How she would have taken the arrival of Father Peter Clifford's atheist Irishwoman was anybody's guess, but Assumpta would be willing to stake a wager.

Not that she felt any need to share this with the man who was currently holding her hand with his.

"Let's go out today," she suggested instead. "Wear actual clothes and see actual people. I need a dress for tomorrow anyway."

Peter inwardly cursed himself for forgetting that the funeral was tomorrow before answering with a casual, "Okay."

"Manchester too far to get to?"

"Could be there by 12 if we leave now."

"That's settled then," Assumpta decided, feeling happier now they had moved on to lighter topics. "I'll even buy you lunch."

"You'd better," Peter laughed falsely, unable to completely quell the sinking feeling in his heart.

_You're in mourning,_ his head told him. _It's okay not to feel fantastic._

But as he watched Assumpta dance towards the stairs he wished momentarily that he could feel as excited about their future as she was feeling. He wished he could feel something other than this overwhelming guilt that threatened to devour him whole.

* * *

"The capped sleeves or the straps?"

"Hmm."

"…or perhaps the long sleeve." Assumpta mulled dreamily in the Debenhams woman's department in Manchester's Arndale shopping centre. In front her was a sea of black and navy evening dresses, each interchangeable with another, or at least so it seemed to Peter.

He didn't want to be here. But then, at the moment, he didn't want to be anywhere really – least of all anywhere public. They'd been here for over an hour already and judging by the number of unworn garments still available, the pair weren't going anywhere else anytime soon.

"I like the one without sleeves," he volunteered elusively, in a bid to hurry things along.

Assumpta eyeballed him with incredulity. "You couldn't…" she wagered. "For a funeral?"

"The black one, then. Look Assumpta, just pick one will you."

The publican sighed wearily. She knew this was tortuous – hell, she was almost bored herself. But how could she emphasise the importance of picking the right thing to wear on this, her first meeting with Peter's entire family.

"Alright," she relented. "You wait outside, I'll just try these on." Assumpta tried to disguise the annoyance in her voice with a weak smile.

"Thank you!"

Peter didn't need telling twice. In no time at all, he'd managed to traverse the vast space of the woman's department, pass kids wear and find himself outside the department store, in the veritable refuge of the packed food court.

The smell of fast food was intoxicating. He'd been promised lunch by Assumpta but that mealtime had come and gone. It was now a quarter past three and the Priest was half-mad with hunger.

"Cheeseburger, please" he found himself saying to the nonplussed teen behind the counter of Happy Burger. _What she doesn't know won't hurt her,_ he wagered.

"Going to get me one of those, then?"

A woman's voice stopped Peter dead in his tracks. Without turning, he knew immediately who it was.

"Jenny"

* * *

_A/N Aaaggghhh, this story is just impossible to finish! Don't worry, the introduction of Ballyk's most loathed female character isn't taking this story in another direction. I fully intend to complete this story in the next chapter (or maybe the one after that!) _

_Thanks for still sticking with me :)_


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